The Bravery of the Soldier
by thebakerstreetgirl
Summary: When a news story about a hostage situation in Afghanistan breaks, details about John Watson's military service come to light that the doctor had kept secret for a long time. Sherlock is intrigued and John manages to surprise the British government. What John needs in light of this story and the PTSD responses it flares up, is a friend. Can Sherlock Holmes step up to the job?
1. Chapter 1: Breaking News

Chapter 1: Breaking News

It was a normal, quiet Saturday morning at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, fully immersed in his latest experiment and absentmindedly sipping at the cup of Yorkshire tea his flat mate had just shoved in front of him.

John, clutching a cup of tea of his own and a plate with scrambled eggs and toast, walked over to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and flipped open The Guardian. Both men were enjoying the peace and quiet that had descended upon their lodgings.

They had completed their latest case the previous day, both gotten a decent night's sleep and for once they had no injuries to treat. Considering how battered they usually ended up after cases, this was a bit of an oddity.

"Hoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called into the flat before stepping into the living room.

"Morning boys."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson" John replied for both of them. "I was making scones this morning and must have gotten the recipe wrong. I made way too many, so I thought I'd bring some up for you" she said and put a plate full of freshly-baked scones down on the table in front of John.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint!" Even though both John and Sherlock knew it was a white lie and that she had intended to bake for them all along, they were both utterly grateful and played along. Smelling the baked goods, even Sherlock abandoned his experiment and joined John and their landlady in the main room.

John got up, poured an extra cup of tea for Mrs. Hudson, took a pot of clotted cream and some jam out of the fridge and decided not to tell Mrs. Hudson what exactly had been stored next to the cream. It'd be better if she didn't know.

Munching their scones in blissful silence, John was flipping through the newspaper. Almost imperceptibly, he tensed, adjusted his sitting position and started reading a feature in earnest.

While Mrs. Hudson thought he'd merely shifted to amore comfortable position on the sofa next to her, Sherlock did notice the minute changes in John's demeanor. Glancing over at his best friend, Sherlock saw his eyes flickering across the page, shoulders drawn back slightly, legs slightly apart. The stance was that of a soldier, sitting down, but fully alert and at attention.

Every few paragraphs, John's eyebrows would rise a little. Sherlock didn't want to ask but he'd have to skim-read the paper later to satisfy his curiosity and find out what had caught John's attention like that.

Judging by the adopted soldier's stance, the detective deduced it had something to do with Afghanistan.

After breakfast, John excused himself and went up to his room where he stayed for more than an hour while Sherlock resumed his experiment, and later went to pick up the violin. But before be brought the instrument up to his chin, his eyes landed on the neatly folded Guardian John had been perusing earlier.

He flicked it open and didn't have to search for long. A feature about a government cover-up, hostage situation and multiple injuries leapt out at Sherlock from pages six and seven. The feature was accompanied by photos of British soldiers (judging by the uniforms), though their faces had been pixilated, awaiting formal identification.

The article stated that in 2009, a British unit had been ambushed and taken hostage by the Taliban somewhere in the far reaches of Helmand Province. When this unit failed to make contact with base, a tactical team and a medic had been sent after them. The report went on that this tactical team was overpowered as well, and the soldiers taken hostage.

Ransom demands had been sent out and the release of captured insurgents requested in exchange for the men's lives. When none of the demands were met, the captors sent one of the British soldiers back in a body bag. A week later, another British soldier died as an apparent suicide bomber after he'd been sent into the local town's square, strapped to a bomb vest.

A raid was ordered on the compound the troops were being held prisoner at. A firefight ensued, the insurgents were killed or captured. Eyewitness accounts suggested that one of the soldiers took charge of all the prisoners and organised them so that they could be as effective as possible during the siege. The same man, it was alleged, suffered severe wounds while protecting his unit, trying to get all the injured soldiers out of the line of fire during the stand-off. The identity of the man remained a mystery, but the eyewitnesses concurred that he was a hero and deserved to be recognised as such. According to all accounts, he had single-handedly saved the lives of all remaining prisoners and suffered greatly for his act of bravery.

Sherlock sat back deep into the sofa. '2009' he thought. 'That's when John was serving in Afghanistan. Maybe he had heard about this? Maybe he knew some of them or treated the prisoners at the field hospital he was stationed at. I need to find out.'

Behind him, Sherlock could hear John's footsteps coming down the stairs to the living room. Sherlock looked up and saw that John had gotten changed. Where he had been sporting his favourite worn pair of jeans and the beige jumper he seemed so fond of, he had now changed into a dark pair of jeans, a plaid shirt and a dark blue cardigan and his brown leather shoes.

Sherlock took it all in in one look, one eyebrow slightly raised. John cleared his throat. "I'm going out for a bit, Sherlock. I'll grab us some take-away for later. Anything else we need, text me, ok? I can go past the shops."

"Fine."

With that, John grabbed his coat and bounded down the seventeen stairs.

In one swift motion, Sherlock was back on his feet, in front of the large window, violin and bow in hand. Just as he was about to play, he caught a glimpse of John as he walked out the front door. He was greeted by an imposing-looking man. John saluted and sprang to attention. The man returned the salute and motioned for John to follow him. 'Military training' Sherlock thought, amused by how easily and seamlessly John had snapped to attention. 'Once a soldier, always a soldier.' The detective had no doubt left that John was involved in the news story in one way or another. He'd have to ask John more about it tonight.

Sherlock turned back towards the window and the melody of God Save The Queen soon wafted through the air at Baker Street.

Across London, Mycroft Holmes had been called into a secret Whitehall meeting. He knew it was about the Afghanistan story that had appeared today. He had already secured the so-called proof the Guardian had cited as its source for the story.

Although there had clearly been a government cover-up, Mycroft himself had not worked on this issue in 2009. He'd been responsible for Korea at the time. His superiors demanded answers as to what had happened and who had been involved. The agent who had dealt with the issue originally had been assassinated in 2011, so the task of establishing timeline, identification, protocol and verification of authenticity had been transferred to the older Holmes brother.

His assistant known as Anthea to the outside world had handed him a DVD just before he'd been called to the meeting and Mycroft disliked not being able to review the information beforehand. In this matter though, he didn't have much choice, so he asked Anthea to run facial recognition against the video from Afghanistan and contact him via her trusted BlackBerry once she had more information.

The impeccably dressed man didn't outwardly show his nervousness to anyone. Anthea could tell her boss was anxious, though. She quickly squeezed his hand once. Mycroft inhaled deeply, pushed open the heavy wooden doors and entered the lion's den.

When John stepped out of 221b Baker Street, he wasn't at all surprised to find his old commanding officer, Colonel Evans waiting for him. In fact, in light of the story he just read, he had expected it and had wisely changed into more suitable civilian clothes than the comfortable ones he'd been wearing earlier this morning.

As soon as he spotted his CO, Captain Watson snapped to attention, saluting as if the last three years of his life as a civilian GP and blogger had never happened.

"Captain Watson! So good to see you again. At ease!" Colonel Evans beamed. "May I have a word with you? I trust you know what this is about?"

"Of course, sir."

"Walk with me" Evans said and started making his way down Baker Street. John fell into step by his side. "Of course you were debriefed at the time. I've known you long enough to trust that you didn't leak this to the press."

"Yes, sir. Debriefed as soon as my condition was stable. I've not told a soul about this. What would I have to gain? I just don't understand where those pictures came from, sir. It's definitely us, it's definitely the compound but none of my men were carrying Audio/Visual equipment."

"That's what I thought, Watson. And believe me, we, the entire British Army, are grateful for everything you and your unit did. I just regret that given the diplomatic red tape we've never been able to effectively show our appreciation and gratitude", Evans said and stopped, fixing his gaze and the pavement at his feet, John tensed a bit. Of course he understood that it would have created a major incident, had the truth been found out at the time. The army was trying to save face. But John couldn't help but thinking that a little appreciation would have gone a long way.

While they all had recovered from their injuries, all but two were invalided home like him. They had all wound up in depressing little bedsits provided by the MoD, but thinking back to his life in London before Baker Street, John didn't think it had been worth all he and his unit had been through. But that is life in the army for you, and John knew what he signed up for. He straightened up and looked at his CO. That easy smile he was known for on his face, an unassuming, almost apologetic look. "For Queen and Country, sir, above all else. There's a reason the RAMC's motto is In Arduis Fidelis", John acknowledged. "Faithful in adversity. How true, Captain." With that, they walked side by side in silence for a few minutes. Both men had their hands clasped together behind their backs, like they were on a leisurely stroll through Hyde Park.

Eventually, they reached a little pub called The Gunmaker. "Well, Captain Watson, I'm not sure what the MoD or the British Army will or will not do in light of this article. I hope they'll do the right thing, the decent thing and own up, finally showing respect where respect is due."

"That's very kind, sir. I'd like to see my unit honoured for the way they dealt with their ordeal. You know me, I don't like fame and I wouldn't want anything for myself. We did our duty, followed our training. But it shattered our careers in Her Majesty's service. If there is any way I can help secure treatment or housing or anything to set them up properly for civilian life, I'm happy to do what it takes. They are good men and women, trusted friends and colleagues."

"That they are indeed", Evans agreed, still a bit perplexed by John's humility although he's never seen John ask for anything for himself in all the years they'd served together. "Well, I don't know what official course of action will be taken, but I insist that you at least let me buy you lunch and a pint, for old time's sake if nothing else and a little towards showing my appreciation. And you can tell me all about your life here and any news you might have of your unit."

"Oh, I'm sure I can be persuaded, sir. But this, as you can imagine, is my local pub. I go by Doctor Watson here, or even John. I left Captain Watson behind… that day. No disrespect, sir."

"OK, then, Doctor Watson. What will you have?"

John smiled and placed his order. They talked for close to two hours, about deployments, mutual colleagues and news they had picked up. "Corporal Montgomery is on home leave now, I've heard. She's pregnant! And Connerty got married last year", Colonel Evans said halfway through his second pint. "Bastion is still the same, a few more barracks, maybe, but the place is still as big, red and sandy as ever. Field hospital's gone a bit downhill, though. You're a damn good doctor and a fine soldier!"

"Was…" John corrected.

"Still a bloody good doctor, though."

"Well, I'm a locum GP, a far cry from what I used to be."

"I read all about your crime-solving in the papers, though. With that Sherlock Holmes guy."

"Oh yeah, that's rather fun! Sherlock's the one solving most of the crimes, though. I just write them up and see to it that the git doesn't get himself into too much trouble. Between that and my locum work, I usually have quite a tight schedule."

The Colonel listened intently, as John told him all about their adrenaline-fuelled cases. He forgot to talk about his locum work at all.


	2. Chapter 2: The Mysterious Video

Chapter 2: The Mysterious Video

Mycroft and his superiors were still watching the DVD Anthea had procured. For the most part the picture was shaky and grainy. So far, they had established that a unit of six soldiers from 4th Battalion The Rifles had failed to make contact while clearing a stretch of highway in a mountainous region of Helmand Province. They had been tasked with securing the road and clearing IEDs. Two days later, a unit of six from 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, a medically trained officer, two bomb disposal experts and two snipers were sent after 4th Battalion. One of the soldiers from 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was wearing hidden GPS equipment. They had been captured by the Taliban and taken to a compound known to be a Taliban stronghold. That's where the GPS tracker remained.

From the thick files on the mahogany table in front of them, the men at Whitehall learned that the captain in charge of 4th Battalion was killed after a ransom demand had not been met. He'd been executed and sent back to Camp Bastion in a body bag. On the body, a note had been found. It read: "5 Rifs, 6 Fus, 1 Doc, 2 bombs, 2 snips. Alive + well. 20 in den + 2 birds in nest, armed. Road = mountain tunnels. SOS."

The note had confirmed what the commanders at Camp Bastion were suspecting. All but the Rifles' captain were alive. The road from which the soldiers had been taken hostage was served by tunnels hidden in the mountains alongside it. Twenty insurgents on the ground, two snipers located higher up within the compound. All armed to the teeth. The soldiers requested back up to get to freedom. It had been a short note, but it had provided all the necessary info about the size of the enemy, locations and state of the prisoners' welfare.

More ransom demands had been made, the release of captured insurgents requested. None of the demands were met, due to the British government's stance on negotiations with terrorists. Within the week, the captain in charge of 5th Northumberland Fusiliers had been strapped to a bomb vest and sent into the local town's square. When he had reached the centre of the square, the bomb had detonated. A video had been sent by the Taliban claiming that another two soldiers would die every week until they were either all dead or the demands had been met.

The government's stance did not change.

A rescue operation was mounted, but the public had not been informed. If the men were killed, the public would be told that they had died in an explosion as their trucks hit IEDs. A corresponding press release had already been drafted. After all, the media would print the official story no questions asked seeing as they weren't over there, on the ground, in Afghanistan, but instead relying on official statements concerning the war effort.

The British population would never know that the lives of fifteen British soldiers were deemed unimportant in the greater scheme of things; that the lives of fifteen hard-working men and women of the British Army were not worth the exchange of ten insurgents, not even worth negotiations for their own release.

Three days after the captain died as an apparent suicide bomber, the MoD orchestrated a rescue mission. One of the team members had been instructed to wear a helmet camera to gain an insight into the compound. Far off, explosions could be heard. They were deliberate missile hits just outside the far end of the complex, in order to provide a distraction so the rescue team could get in unnoticed.

They had approached via the tunnels which led straight into the complex. The tip-off about the tunnels' existence proved to be invaluable. As the rescue team descended into the compound, mission control was set up at the entrance, just outside the line of sight of the enemy.

Upon storming the compound, the rescue team encountered that the two army units had joined forces under the command of one of the remaining captains, who had taken charge of the situation. All of them had been able to sneak weapons away and conceal them on their persons. They had quietly studied their captors' movements, knew the guard changes, knew some of their weaknesses and knew where the ammunition was kept. They'd been playing the waiting game. They were ready.

"You here for us? About bloody time!" a hoarse voice hissed close to the camera. The tunnel ended in a basement room of the building next to the temporary prison the soldiers had been kept in. The video showed several soldiers, who, although they looked a bit haggard, dehydrated and some of them bruised, all seemed to be in good spirits.

"Got any flash bangs by any chance? We want to get them all in the yard. Surprise them with these fresh 'reinforcements'. They won't know what hit them! Fifteen are in the building opposite, five on the floor above us and two across the yard in the tower." A young man, Lance Corporal judging by the uniform, brought the newcomers up to speed. A lieutenant cut in "The doc is keeping the medical kit, anyone gets hurt, holler for the doc. He's kept an extra kit by the door. If you brought a medi-kit with you, leave it with the rest, he'll be grateful." The response team nodded their understanding.

They handed out all the flash bangs and extra weaponry they brought with them. The camera trained on a figure crouching by the doorway. The uniform said captain and all eyes were trained on him. He held up his hand to signal for quiet, glanced left and right around the door again, nodded and gave the signal to attack.

And then all hell broke lose.

For a minute, the video only showed grey smoke and red sand. Voices that were distorted by white noise were shouting, gunshots rang out. The two army snipers had spent their time watching the insurgents and knew exactly where the Taliban sniper nest was. They trained their sights on the tower that looked a lot like a minaret and squeezed off four rounds. There was no return fire from the nest. Once the smoke cleared, the insurgents stormed. Their attack was uncoordinated at best, and they were blindly shooting into the prison building. The insurgents were caught by surprise when they encountered the extra manpower and the ground was stained with blood soon after. The lieutenant was the first of the British soldiers to go down. His scream pierced the air as he took a bullet to the leg. The doctor immediately snapped his head around. Clenching his own gun and squeezing off two shots which killed two insurgents, he crouched down and made his way to the soldier on the ground. Completely trusting his comrades to have his back, he went to work wrapping the wound and then dragging the lieutenant towards the entrance of the tunnels.

Two rescue team members had been instructed to stay there, assist with field triage and get the wounded to safety. Within moments, the doctor emerged again to join the fight, but a grenade thrown by one of the insurgents on the upper floor sent the military men flying.

The medic was the first one back on his feet and once again didn't waste time to get straight to work. "Med-kit! Someone get me more kit!" the doc yelled over the gunfight. There really was a lot of blood but too many people still lay bleeding and dazed on the floor, too close together to clearly determine where one blood pool started and another stopped.

Unfazed, the doc worked tirelessly while bullets kept flying by. Pressing down on wounds and bandaging them as good as possible, dragging his colleagues to safety. More shots rang out and instead of stopping, the doc just crouched down further, kept steady pressure on the wound he was trying to staunch and shielded the soldier he was working on with his own body.

Another grenade was thrown and one of the female Lance Corporals collapsed, bleeding profusely from her leg. The doc was instantly at her side. "Secure the yard! Get my men out! Where the hell is the chopper? Please tell me there's a medevac on its way! We need to get everyone to the closest field hospital. NOW!"

"Chopper ETA five minutes, sir!"

"Corporal Adams, secure the upstairs. Make sure we got them all, no more nasty surprises!" The corporal nodded and could be seen hurrying away. "Someone, get one of the spare medical kits. Start applying pressure to the wounds. Mercer, Eaton, move it!" The screen was a flurry of activity, the tone of voice the doctor had used brook no arguments and was instantly obeyed.

The soldier with the helmet camera was kneeling in the yard, clearly helping an injured colleague. At the edges of the picture, which was focused on a rather nasty wound to the right side of a chest, the doctor could be seen dashing from casualty to casualty, quickly assessing, helping, moving on. Despite the clipped tone he'd used and the threat they were still under, the doctor examined his fellow brothers in arms with practiced calm and efficiency. While working as fast as he could, he still took time to assess each wound properly, speaking soothingly to the wounded and his steady hands ghosting over flesh and blood.

From far off, the whirr of an approaching helicopter could be heard, and there was a sigh of relief from the cameraman once it came into view. It was touching down in the yard when Corporal Adams called out "All clear!"

Those who could still move of their own accord started dragging and carrying their friends to the chopper and continued to provide first aid. The medic knelt next to a still body. The soldier was barely breathing. "This one needs to get to the chopper, stat!" He got up and clutched his gun as he looked around the yard, tense and on full alert.

Dismissing the feeling because they'd been declared all clear, he started to walk over to the female officer lying near one of the buildings. Time seemed to stand still as a single shot rang out across the yard. Instead of diving for cover, the medic instinctively lunged himself forwards and threw himself across the female soldier to protect her from further harm. One of the insurgent snipers in the minaret must have survived. Ten army guns immediately trained on him and returned fire. The doctor gave one blood-curling scream of pain – and didn't get back up.

"Shit! Doc! Captain! Talk, damn it! Come on, sir!" The cries of his men were frantic. Someone rolled the doc over and checked for a pulse. "He's alive! Move, move, move!"

Only now did the unit realize that their doctor was bleeding profusely from his shoulder and chest. His trouser legs were smeared with blood. His arm was almost definitely broken, sticking out at a weird angle from when he had thrown himself over his colleagues over and over again to protect them. The man with the camera took a closer look, the picture still grainy and blurry thanks to sand and dust, but for the first time the face of the man in charge was revealed.

Mycroft Holmes' jaw dropped and he raised one of his eyebrows ever so slightly.


	3. Chapter 3: Shoe Polish And Secrets

Chapter 3: Shoe Polish And Secrets

Sherlock had behaved himself while John was away with his army buddy. Only one experiment had leaked onto the kitchen floor and he'd actually remembered to put a wash on. John came back to Baker Street after a late lunch and went straight to the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink.

"Is there anything in particular you are looking for?" Sherlock asked behind him. It startled John so much that he banged his head on the sink above him with a resounding 'clang'. "Black shoe polish", he groaned, rubbing the rapidly forming bump at the rear of his head.

"Here, use mine" Sherlock said, went through to his bedroom and returned seconds later with a brand new tube of polish. "You do realize that your shoes are brown, though, don't you?"

"Yes, I know, you dip stick! I've got more than the one pair, you know?"

"Just checking."

He handed John the shoe polish, who took it and went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, John returned holding an old shoe box and sat down at the coffee table. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye. Gingerly, John placed the shoe box on the table, like putting down a treasure. He carefully lifted the lid to reveal a maroon-coloured cloth.

Unfolding the cloth, he revealed a black military-issue dress shoe underneath. With the same care John usually reserved for tending to patients' wounds and cleaning his Browning, he picked the first shoe up and examined it in the light, before picking up the polish and a brush. As he began cleaning the leather, John's movements were practiced and precise and he went about the task in hand as if he was in trance. Cleaning kit and shoes had been ingrained into his muscle memory, the movements coming to him without much conscious thought.

Sherlock meanwhile had resumed playing the violin. First a piece by Bach that John vaguely recognised, then one of his own compositions and then he launched into a stylized and adapted version of "Here's a Health unto his Majesty", the RAMC quick march John was all too familiar with. Recognising the tune, John snapped out of his reverie and shot a sideways look at his flat mate.

"Why are you playing this particular march, Sherlock?"

"Why not? It's the quick march of the Royal Army Medical Corps, is it not?"

"I bloody well know what it is. I had to march to this on parade plenty of times. The question remains: why are you playing it?"

"I just thought it was fitting somehow. You, polishing the shoes of your parade uniform on a day on which a major news story about Afghanistan breaks, a story from 2009 and which you are somehow involved in – don't give me that look, that part was easy to work out by your behaviour - it can't be a coincidence. I thought, given all I know about your time in Afghanistan, the RAMC march would be something you're familiar with. I'll play something else if it bothers you that much."

"It doesn't bother me as such, I've just not heard it in a while. It brings back memories, a lot of which I'd rather forget…."

"You were there though, weren't you? You were involved in this hostage / government cover up situation somehow. You would have denied it, if you had no knowledge of it."

John put down his shoe. By now it was shining so much; John could see his own reflection in it.

"Oh hell, what's the point denying it? You're right. I was there in 2009 and involved in this. You would have deduced as much anyway." Sherlock nodded. "But it was all kept secret and I can't talk about it."

"Why not? It's out in the open now."

"That doesn't matter, Sherlock. Until the army or MoD releases an official statement, there's nothing I can say or do. And even then, depending in the statement, I might still not be able to disclose in how far I am connected to this. Just leave it for now, please."

"Fine. But don't think this conversation is over, John."

More in an attempt to escape the interrogation than anything else, John got up, stretched and walked over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He fixed two mugs of tea on auto-pilot and dodged one of Sherlock's experiments. Lost in his thoughts, John nearly jumped and knocked over the beaker containing god-knows-what when the kettle started to whistle.

Sherlock, Mr. Observation that he is, noticed.

"John, are you sure you're alright? You're jumpy, jumpier than usual and you're easily distracted, both not attributes I'd usually associate with you. I do actually have a very high security clearance, courtesy of my brother. I'm sure he'd confirm it for you if you wanted to check. Either way, you should know I'd not tell anyone, or don't you trust me? The story clearly affected you. You're polishing your uniform shoes. I bet it's because one way or another there'll be some sort of public display in which you might be required to partake, wearing your parade uniform. You're anxious because of it, but ever the soldier, you want to be prepared."

"To be honest, Sherlock, I'm not alright." John handed the detective his mug, who just put it on the counter behind him and grabbed John by the shoulders and looked his friend in the eye. John steadied himself under the scrutiny.

"It's not that I don't trust you or your discretion, Sherlock. But I'm under orders. Until I get the go-ahead, I cannot talk about this. I've never spoken to anyone about it all. But the article brings back memories, most of them painful. And I think I should warn you: I will most definitely have nightmares tonight. So you might want to invest in some ohropax. Whatever you do, don't hold me down in order to wake me up. You might end up with a bloody nose and you wouldn't be the first. And you're right. I am anxious. This could be a big thing if properly acknowledged. I'm not holding my breath, though. It all got swept under the carpet in 2009 and everyone who had anything to do with this got told what to expect. Cleaning my shoes… well it's kinda therapeutic. It's like cleaning my gun, something we did in the barracks to take our minds off things. I realized it's been a long time since my dress shoes saw sunlight, so I thought, why not? It gives me something to do, you know?"

John looked down. Sherlock could tell he was clearly troubled and would have loved to talk in confidence with a friend but couldn't. Sherlock would have to go back to the article again, read between the lines and factor in John's body language.

John took a sip of his tea, wrapping both hands around the steaming mug, interlacing his fingers and soaking up the warmth it gave off even though it was a warm and clear spring day outside. With a sigh, John walked back over to the sofa and started working on his other shoe. Sherlock sipped his tea and made a decision. As much as he hated it, he would have to ask for help. The detective pulled out his mobile phone and typed in a familiar number.

"I NEED TO SEE JOHN'S ARMY FILE. – SH"

A few minutes later, his mobile chirped.

"I'LL BE OVER LATER. NEED TO TALK. – MH

Sherlock frowned. That wasn't the answer he'd expected. And worst of all, he'd have to deal with Mycroft face to face. Way to ruin a Saturday!

John, sitting on the couch, made fast and efficient progress, his shoe-shining skills honed by years of practice. Sherlock sat down at his computer. If John and Mycroft couldn't provide the answers he craved, maybe the internet could. He started by typing "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers", the regiment mentioned when John had been introduced at Buckingham Palace for that Woman case, into the search bar. A page loaded, he leaned back and started reading.

In Whitehall, Mycroft and his peers were just discussing what had happened to the soldiers in the video after the shoot-out. Their medical files were extensive. The female officer had suffered severe blood loss and her leg had to be amputated from the knee due to the damage received. But experts agreed that if the medic hadn't gotten to her when he did, she could have bled out or needed the whole leg to be taken off.

Several of the others suffered leg, arm and shoulder wounds. All of them were wrapped immediately and none of the soldiers caught any infections. While two more soldiers had to have limbs amputated, the quick thinking and action on the doctor's part meant they survived. One soldier, who had taken a bullet to the back, was paralysed. He had been lying out in the open yard when the doctor had dashed out and grabbed him and dragged him to safety. The jerk of the movement had further damaged the spinal cord and one of the bosses was quick to blame the medic for the soldier's predicament. But the soldier would have been an easy target and would have almost certainly been killed. As it was, everyone who had been at the siege had survived. And in no small part was this down to the repeated self-sacrifice of the medic, who put himself between the bullets and his patients.

Two of the soldiers were still on active duty, serving in Afghanistan. The rest had been honourably discharged and invalided home or had requested transfers to desk duty on UK soil. A handful of them, mainly members of the rescue team, had escaped with mere scratches. But the doctor himself was another matter. After saving fourteen people, the medic was the one who came closest to dying. And it was a very close call. Only when he had been rolled off the female officer did all his injuries become apparent. His whole left shoulder was destroyed, the bullet was a through and through that had entered from the back, through the joint and exited at the front at and angle, just above his heart.

He'd broken his right arm as he dove to the ground protecting one of his fellow men. A bullet had hit his thigh and the right side of his face had blistered when the grenade had gone off not far from him. Out of all of them, he came closest to bleeding out, there, at the old, disused mosque that had been converted into a Taliban base. Nobody had noticed how severely he was injured because he kept moving quickly and confidently while the adrenaline was pumping through his veins. He was unconscious by the time his unit got him into the medevac chopper. With none of the other soldiers on the ground being a medic, they tried to stop the blood flow from the shoulder with rags. The doctor himself had used up all the clean bandages tending to their injuries first. By the time he reached the hospital at Camp Bastion, the doctor wasn't breathing. While the base staff managed to resuscitate him, he slipped into a coma after surgery. His shoulder had to be reconstructed, which caused his mobility to lessen.

The doctor developed enteric fever because the rags that had been used to save his life and dam the blood flow had been dirty and contaminated. Only six weeks after the rescue had the doctor pulled through for good; for the first three weeks it was pretty much touch and go. Once he was awake and fit to travel, he was invalided home to the UK. As brave and qualified a man as he was, his shoulder wound meant that his hand shook and his mobility in his left arm, though improved through months and months of physio therapy, would never be back at one hundred percent. His shoulder joint had been destroyed and he would most probably retain a limp from the wound to his leg but worst of all, while he had fought off sepsis and enteric fever, he'd had several seizures. That was what sealed his fate. He would never go back into battle to fight alongside his men. You weren't fit for duty if you'd suffered seizures. The same applied to him reverting back to being a Medical Officer – he'd be a liability to the army. And just like that, two distinct and distinguished army careers came to an abrupt halt.

Mycroft read out from his file that all invalided personnel who had required it had been given a one room bedsit by the MoD and his predecessor had arranged for them all to receive physio therapy and trauma counselling. After they had been debriefed and told that the British public would not hear of this story, each had been given £500 per month on top of their army pensions to cover their health care.

As far as Mycroft could tell, that was it.

"Are you telling me that we took fifteen war heroes and hid them away in dingy little flats? Did any of them receive any honours for their actions and sacrifices?" Mycroft's boss asked, his voice incredulous.

"Yes, sir, as far as I am aware from the notes left by my predecessor. He noted that some of them did receive honours for other actions during the Afghan campaign. But none of them received anything but a cold handshake for this situation, pardon me saying."

"Not even the doctor?"

"Sir, he is already the recipient of the Military Cross for actions he took in 2008 which ensured the survival of his unit. He's not just a doctor, he is also a commissioned, combatant soldier. That is why he was sent in with the tac team to start with. Some of the others received Distinguished Service Medals, but again, not for this", Mycroft explained.

"That won't do. Someone get me the Palace, Downing Street and the Commanders of the British Army on the line for a conference in an hour! I think we should let the public know about the hostage situation, but not mention the ransom demands. Go big on the heroics of everyone involved. Nothing like heroes to boost public morale and the nation's stance on this war. Although we obviously still need to confirm officially, I think all 15 should be awarded the Military Cross for Gallantry. Make that the Military Cross with one bar for the doctor. But I'll also need to see whether the medic can be decorated even higher. I'm thinking one of the other crosses for bravery and valor. He not only saved everyone's lives but as senior captain, he also took charge of 4th Battalion The Rifles, his own 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and helped orchestrate the rescue team."

Everybody present at the meeting nodded in agreement. "Right, then. This shouldn't be too difficult, especially as we have the proof on DVD." With that, Mycroft's boss left the room to prepare for his talk with the Queen, the Prime Minister and the Army Commanders.

Mycroft felt strangely proud, especially given the decorations that were to be discussed. They were well and truly deserved. And from his point, he would see to it that the soldiers' monthly MoD allowance was increased dramatically.

One and a half hours later, Buckingham Palace, Downing Street, Whitehall and the Army Commanders reached a conclusion. They were sure everyone involved would be satisfied with the outcome.

Mycroft Holmes looked down at the picture of the smiling, unassuming army doctor in front of him. 'Silent waters do indeed run deep' he mused as he placed the photo back in its protection and closed the file.

The file of a certain Captain John Hamish Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.


	4. Chapter 4: Ribbons

Chapter 4: Ribbons

Once John had finished with his shoes, he'd gone around the flat collecting used dish towels and his laundry before heading to the washing machine in Mrs. Hudson's basement.

Sherlock took the opportunity to inspect John's shoes and was nearly tempted to give John his own shoes to clean too – he'd never seen shoes this immaculate and he'd grown up in a world where perfectly polished footwear was an essential part of a gentleman's attire. Not that he'd cared, of course.

Carefully lifting the shoes back out of the box, Sherlock noticed that there was more hidden in the depths of the shoe carton, underneath the maroon cloth. When he pulled the fabric away, it revealed a navy blue beret with a red over white plume, no doubt part of John's parade uniform, as well as a dark blue beret with the RAMC cap badge attached to it.

'The RAMC doesn't have a designated colour, the navy blue must be the colour of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. But why does he have two berets?' Sherlock had learned online that the RAMC wore the colours of the regiment they were attached to. Inside the plumed beret, John kept his parade gloves. They were pristine, brilliantly white and neatly folded. He held one up against his own hand and noted that although they were too short for him, John's fingers were actually longer than he had realized.

When he tried to replace the glove, Sherlock noticed something falling out of the box and hitting the floor. For a second he just stared at the unassuming, small items lying there on the rug in the middle of 221b: John's dog tags and his decorations. And John had a lot of those, that between them told the story of a very distinguished career. Of course Sherlock had known that in more than a dozen years on active duty, John would have seen action in more than one campaign and on more than one tour of duty. Afghanistan was just last of many places in which he'd seen frontline action. Just as Sherlock was picking the medals up to inspect them further, John came back up the stairs.

"Sherlock! Get away from my things!"

"What are these?" Sherlock asked and held out some of John's awards on an outstretched hand. "They are my military decorations, Sherlock", John said with an eye roll for dramatic effect. "Yes, thank you, doctor, I gathered as much. Have you been hanging out with Anderson? No, I meant, what do they stand for? I only recognise two of them."

John walked over and looked at the ribbons. "Well, this one here is my Afghanistan Campaign Medal", he explained and pointed at one striped ribbon. "That just means I was on active duty there." Sherlock nodded.

"The one next to it is the Iraq Campaign Medal. Again, that means I saw active duty there. Then this one means I am an accomplished marksman", John picked up badge of two crossed rifles. "That means, you know, I know how to shoot people." John grinned, this time Sherlock gave him the mocking eye roll.

"Don't laugh. I was top of my class at Sandhurst and during the Combat Infantryman's Course. I've seen your aim and it's appalling, you couldn't hit a broad barn sideways!" Sherlock gave an amused but petulant huff as John picked up another ribbon. "I got this Distinguished Service Order back in 2007 for leadership. Our GPS systems had failed and I led my unit through enemy terrain back to base. I made Captain again on the back of that." Sherlock could tell by John's voice that it was a proud memory for his friend, especially since Captain was the rank when he left Afghanistan. But then he noticed the phrasing of John's statement and looked up startled. "Again? You got demoted?"

John blushed slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of Sherlock's scrutiny and the attention he gave John's awards.

"Er, no. Actually, it was a kind of voluntary demotion. I used to hold the rank of Major while I was in the RAMC but that was mainly administrative. It's just because as a trained and registered medical professional you expect a certain pay grade, I suppose. But once I passed out of Sandhurst and was commissioned, I had to work my way back up from Second Lieutenant, but at least then I actually had people under my command and wasn't setting broken bones and treating heat stroke all day."

Sherlock had never had an interest in military structures, procedures and hierarchy, and for once failed to deduce all the ramifications. He therefore failed to understand that John had just told him that he hadn't just been an army doctor but a career soldier, a combatant who saw eight years of frontline action, as well. And from the amount of ribbons in front of him, John had seen a lot of action in both of his roles.

John however, assumed that his genius flat mate capable of making mental leaps a mile wide had made the connection and carried on going back to his decorations.

"The Operational Service Medal for Sierra Leone was the last I got in the RAMC. The OSM for Congo was my first deployment after Sandhurst. Again, these medals mean I was on active service there for a certain number of consecutive days. In 2002 I got the Queen's Golden Jubilee Medal, like everyone who had been in the army more than five years by then", shrugging his shoulders as if they'd not been a big deal. "And then there's this…" John picked up the last medal and traced the outlines reverently with one finger. It was a silver cross on a white and purple ribbon. "This is the Military Cross. I got this in 2008 for gallantry but really I think I got it more for stupidity than anything else…"

Sherlock took that in for a moment. "What happened, John? Even I know that a Military Cross is not easy to come by."

"Well…" John sat back down, across from his friend who had taken a pew on the coffee table. "My unit and another were out on exercise. The truck in front hit an IED and went up in flames. Before we knew it, snipers were picking us out one by one. My mate Murray covered me, while I grabbed a first aid kit and went to work on the survivors. We lost three men that day in the explosion. I was able to save everyone who got shot, dragged them behind our truck and bandaged them up the best way I could. It's lucky we all got out of there alive. Someone higher up thought that saving my friends and shooting at the enemy warranted the cross. I'm still not convinced." John shrugged his shoulders again.

Sherlock studied him for a moment, then got up and went into his bedroom without a word. John blinked, a bit taken aback but Sherlock's lack of response but not really surprised by his behaviour anymore. He'd long ago gotten used to Sherlock's antics.

Carefully, John picked his medals up and placed them back in the shoe box, fingers lingering on the plume on his beret for a few seconds. The consulting detective searched around for a few minutes until John could hear a faint "Aha!" coming from the general direction of Sherlock's room. Sherlock returned to the living room, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Well, someone must have thought that you deserve a medal for being you. And I agree! John…" Sherlock said "… I know this doesn't compare to your rather extensive – and impressive I might add – military decorations, but for continuously running after me, stitching me up and generally making sure I don't kill myself, plus putting up with me on a daily basis without having strangled me which is more than I can say of my own brother, I present you with the … er…. 221b Medal of Bravery." He grinned like the Cheshire cat and unclenched his fist, revealing a smiley-face clip-on button which he presented to John.

John actually had to laugh out loud at this but did sit still and allowed Sherlock to pin the smiley to his lapel anyway. 'Mission accomplished, managed to cheer John up' Sherlock thought to himself. Maybe this caring lark wasn't such a disadvantage after all, as long as nobody else knew about it.

"My… thank you, Sherlock. It's… an honour… I guess?" He grinned up at his lanky flat mate. They shook hands once the smiley had been attached and both cracked up laughing. "I'm reserving the right to throttle you in my thoughts, though", John added once he'd managed to catch his breath again.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Hungry?" Sherlock asked. "Starving!" came the immediate reply. "Dim sum?" they both asked at the same time. They just knew each other too well, after several years as flat mates.

John placed the order by heart and smiled down at the smiley button. 'How fitting' he thought and looked up to the spray-paint smiley on the wall.

Twenty minutes later their food arrived and they sat in amicable silence while they ate. Even Sherlock had a few mouthfuls and stole a few of John's mini spring rolls. But John didn't mind. He'd gotten an extra portion of the spring rolls on purpose, believing in what he had dubbed his "ninja-feeding-technique."

If Sherlock was distracted enough with a problem or filing through his Mind Palace and John had extra food on hand that he ate deliberately at a slow pace, Sherlock would steal bits and pieces thinking John wouldn't notice. Sometimes not even Sherlock was aware he was doing it. Of course John did notice – if you started out with five spring rolls and suddenly there's only one left, you tend to notice – but he was glad he managed to get Sherlock to eat at all, and always ordered an extra side just in case.


	5. Chapter 5: The Lifting Of The Red Tape

Chapter 5: The Lifting Of The Red Tape

Just as they had finished their dinner and moved the empty boxes to the kitchen, there was a knock on the door downstairs. They could hear Mrs. Hudson greeting Mycroft and making a fuss, before they heard his sure footsteps accentuated with the unmistakable tapping of his umbrella coming up the seventeen stairs.

"Evening, brother." Sherlock said in the general direction of the door without turning around. "Good evening, Sherlock. Good evening, John."

"Hello Mycroft. What can we do you for?" John asked. "Actually, I'm here to see both of you, but especially you, John, this time round."

"Me? Why me?" John already had an idea where this was going. "I think you know why, John. And I just want to inform you that the vow to secrecy has been partially lifted. I'm here to tell you the story that was agreed on… and how this situation will continue", Mycroft explained.

"Have a seat then, Mycroft", John said while pointing in the direction of the armchairs. The older Holmes brother strolled over to Sherlock's chair from where he'd been standing on the threshold. Sherlock took up his usual position on the leather sofa while John sat down in his own armchair.

"If you don't mind, Mycroft, I'd like to tell the story. Sherlock's been nagging me for an explanation and seeing as I was there, I think he should hear it from me."

"Of course, John, do go ahead. I'll amend when necessary." This earned him a fairly pissed-off glare from the former Captain. Wisely, Mycroft chose not to comment further at that time and just smiled at him, thin-lipped. John steeled himself for what he was about to divulge, took a deep breath and started to tell the biggest secret he'd ever kept.

"Well, first off, Sherlock, you were right. The Afghanistan story in the paper today did have to do with me. As you know, I was Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I had 120 people under my command. I was a combatant soldier but I started my army career with a medical cadetship and went on to become an army GP. Due to the cadetship, I had signed up to serve 7 years as an army doctor. After that, like I just told you, I applied to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, and received my commission as a soldier once I graduated. Because I was not only a combatant but also a trained doctor, even though, strictly speaking, I was no longer part of the RAMC, I was chosen as the medic they sent in after 4th Battalion The Rifles got themselves ambushed as they might have required medical care. We weren't any better, though. They literally came out of nowhere, out of solid rock and had us trapped before we even realized what was going on. Along with 4th Battalion, we were taken prisoners. When their ransom demands weren't met, they first killed Captain Moore who was in charge of The Rifles. When that went unanswered, they killed Captain Cooper, who was our unit leader. Although we shared the same rank, I was sent in to function primarily as a paramedic if you like, so Cooper had command of the unit. But they needed someone who could diagnose and offer first aid and so they strapped a med-kit on my back. That's probably what saved me."

At this point, Mycroft interrupted. "John, you need to know that the official MoD line will be that there were no ransom demands. They will say you were prisoners of war. Before you say anything…" Mycroft saw John trying to interject and held up a finger to stop him "I know what you are thinking, but you were debriefed. You know as well as I do, that we do not negotiate with terrorists. If the public knew that you were left there as casualties of war, there'd be riots. We know that Cooper and Moore deserve more and believe me, they will now finally be honoured properly, but I urge you to go with the official line on this one."

A sharp intake of breath could be heard from John's armchair. "Did anything else change or is the MoD just omitting the ransom demands?"

"Just the ransom demands. Everything else was caught on video and will be used as evidence."

"Just answer me one question then, Mycroft. Back then… was it you?" John looked the older Holmes brother square in the eye and spoke quietly, but with a dangerous edge to his voice. Sherlock had learned long ago that a shouting and screaming John Watson was unpleasant but relatively easy to deal with, but once he'd gone quiet, you'd better take cover. Mycroft sensed as much.

"Was it you who made the decision not to negotiate and to keep quiet about us and what we went through? Was it you who'd decided we were not worth the effort and left us there to rot until we got a message out? Was it you who sent us home like damaged and forgotten goods?"

John became more and more enraged. Mycroft held out his hands with a calming gesture. When he replied, he looked John straight in the eyes.

"No, John. I honestly had nothing to do with this. Today was the first time I heard about this situation, and until I saw the video, I had no idea you were even involved. I'm sorry, John. I truly am. My predecessor had a knack for handling delicate situations somewhat… shall we say, bluntly."

John gave Mycroft a curt nod. "OK. Thank you." Getting a heart-felt apology from one of the Holmes boys was rare, but it was best not to dwell on it for too long.

John continued with his account. How they had been treated, how he had been allowed a bit more freedom because he spoke the language somewhat and had helped patch one of their captors up. How he'd managed to sneak the message out with Moore's body.

"That was you?"

"Yeah… not the most original or coded message but time was of the essence. I saw and opportunity and I took it. As the doc, they allowed me to check that he was really dead. There was no doubt, he was executed in front of us with a shot to the head, but they trusted me enough, apparently." The cold, detached tone with which John spoke of execution nearly sent a chill down Sherlock's spine.

"So we wrote a quick note and I managed to wedge it in Moore's mouth where they wouldn't be looking."

"That was ingenious, John! Alerting us of their number and how you were taken from the road gave the rescue team the element of surprise."

"Ta. Even though it was a crude way of doing it. It just didn't feel right but we had no way of knowing whether anyone would be coming for us. We were already meant to be a tac team rescuing 4th Battalion and we were taken hostage as well. Unless we could send a clear sign of life, nobody would risk a third team to get us out of there."

John glanced at Mycroft who just nodded.

"It says in the article that a captain took charge of the prisoners. That was you, John, wasn't it?" Sherlock had been quiet until now.

"Yeah" John sighed. "I was second in command of that unit so when they killed Moore and Cooper, I was highest ranking. Had I still been a member of the RAMC, I would have had to relinquish command to whoever was highest ranking of the combatants, medical officers don't issue orders on the battlefield. But since I was a full combatant myself at the time, I was in charge. 4th Battalion didn't object and the Fusiliers were under my command anyway. Our captors assumed that because I had a first aid kit on me and my men had given me the nickname 'Doc' ages ago, that I was simply a medic. I even told them I was the 'komak'. They assumed I was non-combatant – as a doctor would be – and that my Red Cross band had been ripped off in the skirmish when we were taken. But I just wasn't just there as a medical professional and I wasn't wearing the Red Cross badge to start with."

"And you were the only one with medical training in all the units there?" Sherlock asked. John nodded in reply. The detective got The Guardian out again and opened it to the article.

"So, all of this. That was all you. You're the medic they're talking about." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"Yup. Well, it nearly killed me, though… Actually, it did kill me, for about two minutes…"

This was legitimate news to Sherlock, who looked up at John with a startled expression that the doctor couldn't quite place but did resemble shock, panic, surprise and awe in equal measures. "What? You died?"

"Yeah… I got shot, remember? I had made sure that all my men had received medical treatment as best as I could provide at the time. I was the only doctor and I went down last. My own wounds were bound with rags they found around the compound instead of sterile bandages. I'd lost a lot of blood. By the time they got me back to the hospital at Camp Bastion, I was in cardiac arrest… They got me back, obviously, just in time. Ironic, isn't it? The army doctor who saved his entire unit is the only one to die…"

He paused, chuckled nervously and looked at his flat mate.

"Do you remember the day I came to view the flat? During Lestrade's pretend drugs bust? You asked me to imagine what I'd say in my last moments…"

Understanding dawned slowly on Sherlock's face. "You said you didn't have to…" John nodded. "I thought that was due to your Church of England upbringing. Something you'd think you'd say. Pleading with god to let you live is religiously motivated, after all. I didn't know you meant it literally."

"Sherlock, I was in a coma for several days. Developed enteric fever. The makeshift bandages they used on me on the way to the hospital were contaminated and the wound turned septic. I seized on them more than once. And once I made it through all of that, my career was over. You can't be on active duty if you have a seizure more than once in ten years. That alone would have caused my discharge. They can't risk having someone command a unit and lead them into battle when they could seize up at any point. My shoulder was shot and it took months of physio therapy for me to regain the use of my dominant arm. I'd left the RAMC years before, would have had to rejoin yet again. While they do allow doctors sick leave to recuperate should they be wounded, they don't usually take a wounded doctor on again… So after all of that and two distinct careers in the army, I wasn't fit to continue either. I got invalided home. You know the rest…."

"So… your nightmares? They are about this, aren't they?" Sherlock asked quietly. He actually cared. He'd known the basics, deduced a bit about John's service, but never had he anticipated that his friend had lived through such horrors.

"Yes, most of the time. Obviously in fifteen years in the army, eight of which on the frontline, you do collect a few bad memories."

"John, I know it's almost too late and it's no excuse, but there have been serious discussions today about not only helping you, but all of your men. And believe me that this is not going to be swept under the carpet again, I give you my word" Mycroft assured.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"One thing remains, though. You single-handedly saved fourteen soldiers' lives that day, John. It's taken this long but the Commanders of the British Army have finally agreed to award all fifteen of you the Military Cross. In your case, the Military Cross with one bar for keeping your men calm in times of distress and for organising the attack that led to your freedom."

John was speechless. He just gaped at Mycroft, mouth open and eyes blinking as if he was tying to lift the veil of sleep. Eventually he found his voice again.

"Are you serious?"

"I would not dream to make fun of this, John. The services you have shown for your country and all the sacrifices you have made are finally being honoured properly. I insisted on telling you myself, if you forgive my indulgence. Monetary rewards have also been discussed as we have finally come to understand that we as a nation did not show you or any returning war veterans the respect you rightfully command."

Mycroft gave John a look and a slight nod, which John interpreted as Holmesian for 'should I kidnap you in the future we'll meet at my office and not in a disused warehouse'.

"Mycroft, it was never about any money. You don't join the army because of money and fame. For me, the army enabled me to go to med school, which I couldn't have afforded otherwise. So I had to sign up for seven years. And when they were over, I stayed because I liked being in the army, liked the structure, the excitement and I wanted more of it. We serve Queen and country; first and foremost as I'm sure you can appreciate."

Sherlock's brother nodded, after all, he knew all about patriotism in his line of work. He too had to take an oath to protect the monarchy and the integrity of his country with everything he has to offer.

"I felt the day I was sent home would break me. I was a soldier and an army doctor and told I couldn't be either ever again. Don't get me wrong, I've accepted it and the crime-solving with Sherlock is my new life. I'm happy now, I really am. I might just be a locum GP and blogger these days, but it's given me purpose when the army took it away. But right after I woke up in hospital and realized my shoulder had been shot and how bad it really was, there were times when I wished I'd never woken up again at all."

Suddenly hyper-aware of what he'd just said, he blushed and studied the floor intently, too embarrassed to look at the brothers. He realized that this was a bit more of a heart-to-heart than any of the Holmes boys would be entirely comfortable with. He wasn't even comfortable with it himself, but he'd waited years to talk about this. He risked a look around.

Oddly enough, Sherlock looked at him with obvious care and compassion written all over his usually stoic face. As soon as John noticed though, Sherlock schooled his expression back into the detached mask he usually wore. And the fact that Mycroft, who for all intends and purposes was the British government, was admitting to their massive cock-up and apologizing for it made John feel pretty good. He'd get the Military Cross with one bar. John was still letting that sink in. It may not buy him much as far as rent or food went, but as for military honours, this was pretty high up.

Good thing then, that he'd already started to polish his dress shoes. Looks liked he was going to need them after all.

"Mycroft, I still don't feel like what I did was special, though. Saving peoples' lives is my job description as a doctor and as a soldier. I was a captain. Leading a unit was my job too."

"Doctor Watson, you are a war hero." John visibly cringed at the word.

"It's true. Yes, all those things would have been expected of you in your career but what you did that day during the siege went well and truly above and beyond the call of duty. You kept your team calm while all of you were being held prisoner. You led them in such a way that they were ready as soon as the rescue team got there and you managed to alert us regarding your position and the conditions you were held in. You fought off insurgents while putting your life on the line and making sure all in your team had been assessed and treated as well as possible under the conditions you were in, all while your position was still under fire." Mycroft twirled his umbrella in his hand.

"Believe me, only doing half of those things would have been enough to call you a hero. Now, I realize you probably don't want the attention, but in this case, it really can't be helped."

John winced. While he liked the attention his blog got, he was happy enough to stand in the shadows instead of in the limelight. This was another thing entirely, though. This was much, much bigger. This would go national, probably international too. Ever since Mycroft had first said that the MoD would be making a statement, he'd had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to escape the media. They had all but identified him already. His face was still pixilated in the photos printed today but someone somewhere was likely to drop a hint or run facial recognition software and it was only a matter of time before they arrived at his name.

"John, please believe me that absolutely everything will be taken care of. I'll see to it personally. Anthea will call later to get an official statement from you for the press. Please try to avoid talking to them on your own. The MoD will be handling this officially." Mycroft got up, closed the button on his suit and was getting ready to go. John just nodded, thought swirling around what he was supposed to say in the statement. Just in time he caught a glimpse of the older man about to leave.

"Mycroft, there's one more question, though. Where did the pictures in the Guardian come from? None of my team was carrying audio-visual equipment."

"One of the officers on the rescue team did. We couldn't risk losing a third team without anything to go on. However, we are still looking for the culprit you leaked this footage to the press."

"Is there… you know… is it just pictures or was it filmed?" John's voice was almost a whisper. He'd relived that afternoon countless of times in his head, usually in the throes of a nightmare and in amazing technicolour. While one part of him had problems enough reliving the images in the dead of night, the other half of him wanted to see it, to reassure himself that the nightmares were wrong.

"There is a film, yes. I'll leave it here, but only watch it if you're up for it", Mycroft said and handed over a DVD.

"Thank you, Mycroft. For everything."

"You are most definitely welcome, John. And please don't think me terribly clichéd, but it really is a privilege to know you, Captain Watson."

John gave a little chuckle as he walked Mycroft to the door. While Sherlock's mind was busy filing away all the additional data he'd just received about his best friend, the detective's text alert chimed.

"I SUGGEST YOU WATCH THE DVD WITH HIM. YOU MIGHT UNDERSTAND HIS NIGHTMARES, THEN. HE NEEDS A FRIEND TONIGHT. – MH"

A few seconds later, Sherlock received another text.

"ONCE HE'S SEEN THE DVD, GIVE HIM THE WHITE ENVELOPE ON YOUR DESK. – MH"

"ANYTHING ELSE, BROTHER DEAR? – SH"

Sherlock shot back.

"YES. HE WILL OFFICIALLY BE A HERO. TREAT HIM TO A BETTER DINNER THAN MR. CHAN'S DIM SUM ONCE IN A WHILE. – MH"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. Settling down in his armchair, Sherlock waited for John to come back upstairs.

"That was…. Ummm… a bit much, I guess. Military Cross, bloody hell!" John stood in the doorway and shook his head. "Mind if I open that bottle of Balvenie Lestrade gave us for Christmas? I think I need a drink and I feel like tonight warrants bringing out our best bottle of scotch."

"Go ahead, John. In fact, pour one for me as well. Can't have you drinking by yourself", Sherlock replied.

John disappeared in the kitchen and came back carrying two whisky glasses and the bottle, all of which he placed on the small table by his armchair. Sherlock leaned forward and poured them both a liberal amount.

Sipping the liquid, he studied his flat mate for a while. "Are you sure you want to watch this?" He was playing with the DVD case and his voice carried actual concern.

"I've got to, Sherlock. For my own sanity. I've played this over and over in my head so many times, I'm not quite sure anymore what was real and what was imagined. I need to know."

"If you say so. I've already put the DVD in, you can press play whenever you're ready."

John took a sip of his Scotch. 'I'm gonna have nightmares tonight anyway. Might as well get it over with' he thought. He inhaled deeply and took another sip of his whisky, steeling himself, quite literally, for battle.

Sherlock didn't know what he expected to see. He'd never taken an active interest in the war. Obviously, he knew John had been to Afghanistan, had just learned his friend had been fighting in Iraq too, but he'd never seen pictures of John in combat dress of his parade uniform. There weren't even pictures of John in the RAMC uniform anywhere.

Every now and then, he'd gotten a glimpse of John the soldier at crime scenes. The way John would stand, the eye-contact or lack thereof he maintained. John had a real knack for spotting authority figures and knew instinctively which ones demanded respect and which ones were full of hot air. With a smirk, Sherlock remembered how John told him about how he first met Mycroft – and had promptly told him to sod off and mind his own business.

But John, quiet, kind-hearted John, could also demand respect and obedience. When he started to bark orders or assist in first aid, nobody had questioned him. Everyone springs to action immediately once given an order by John Watson. Sherlock had also seen John as a doctor before. God knows he'd stitched Sherlock up more times than the detective cared or chose to remember.

"A marksman, a crack shot, acclimatized to violence. History of military service and nerves of steel. Strong moral principle." That's what Sherlock had said about John to Lestrade, before he'd figured out that John had shot the cabbie.

'Healing hands, sharpish intellect, sarcastic, slightly dubious sense of humour. Swears like a sailor. Well-mannered. Troubled and wounded. Easily the kindest, most compassionate man I know' Sherlock mentally added to his list of John-attributes. He thought about this for a while and realized that John was still a walking contradiction to him. He'd had no idea of extend of the horrors John had endured during the war. Of course he'd noticed the tremor in John's hand when he got too bored. The partially psychosomatic limp. How John rubbed his shoulders to relieve it of pain when the weather turned cold and windy. And after years of living with him, he'd woken John up from enough horrid nightmares, the ones that left his flat mate panting for air, covered in sweat and waking up screaming his lungs out.

And yet, if you looked at John Watson, you wouldn't see any trace of the trauma he's lived through. Even John's eyes, to Sherlock's mind the most expressive eyes he's ever experienced and which clearly portrayed John's every emotion, usually had a carefree sparkle to them that gave John that unassuming nice-guy-next-door look.

With a sudden pang of guilt that Sherlock took longer than he'd care to admit to identify as such, he realized that they were just about to watch John's darkest nightmare. Literally. Whatever was on that DVD, it was John's deepest, darkest secret, so intrinsically personal that Sherlock almost felt like he was intruding on a matter that John should be allowed to share freely when he was ready. John's lessons about tact had stuck after all.

Sherlock glanced at John sitting in the armchair opposite him. "John, you don't have to do this…"

"No, Sherlock, I really do. Just give me another minute, alright? This is… hard for me. I know what's coming, I was there, but because if this experience and all the flashbacks I've had, I just need to prepare myself, ok?"

"John, you know I don't deal with sentiment or emotions. But even I know that you shouldn't watch this by yourself. You don't have to talk to me or explain anything… I just… er,.. want you to know I'm here, if you need me. As a friend… That's what friends, do isn't it?"

John gave him a sad smile.

"Yes it is, Sherlock. And thank you, I really appreciate this. I mean it. This is stuff not even my therapist knows about I might get… emotional. And I know how much you hate that, but I can really do with a friend tonight and seeing as you're my best friend…" John's voice trailed off.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did understand feelings and emotions. Most of the time, he was able to ignore them. He did feel like he should make an exception for John tonight, though.

Sherlock got up and stood next to John, putting his hand on his flat mate's shoulder. "I'm here, John. Not going anywhere. Whenever you are ready…"

John's eyes met Sherlock's and the doctor nodded. The detective saw the worry in his eyes and the way he swallowed hard.

John grabbed the remote and pressed play.

"Here goes…"


	6. Chapter 6: His Darkest Day

Chapter 6: His Darkest Day

The video started in a tunnel and John knew where it led although he'd never been in it himself.

Eventually, there was daylight and he could hear himself say "You here for us? About bloody time!"

The faces of his colleagues were all so familiar but John felt himself strangely removed from it all. The quarters they'd been held prisoners in were cramped. At the time, it hadn't seemed that way. John saw himself giving the order to storm the yard, heard the hiss of the flash bangs and as the grey smoke started to fill the yard on screen, his nightmares came rushing back.

All he could hear were his friends' voices. Shouting for someone to give them cover, shouting for more ammunition. The gun fire from semi-automatics filled the silence in the room.

On screen, John stood, clutching his weapon, taking aim and squeezing off one shot, two shots, calmly and focused. Each shot hitting its mark, not wasting time or ammunition.

Two insurgents go down. Sherlock watches and is quietly impressed. John stares at the screen, his fingernails digging into the front of the armrest. He looks calm, but his white knuckles give away the building tension.

More shots ring out and John closes his eyes, turns his face away slightly. Then he forces himself to open his eyes and watch. On screen, the shaky camera catches glimpses of 4th Battalion and 5th Northumberland. John's voice calling out above the noise, asking for his kit. He keeps breaking away from relative safety to drag people away; sits in the open yard, completely unprotected, and dresses wounds, calming his soldiers. John is dashing back and forth, pulling, dragging and carrying wounded colleagues indoors and out of harm's way.

Sitting in his armchair in 221b Baker Street, John sees red. Literally. All he sees is blood; so much blood! Seeing the entire scene from a different perspective feels weird to John. His own mind filled in the blanks, everything John had seen that day with his own eyes.

Every now and then he had to shake is head sharply to focus on the DVD once more.

While Sherlock was watching the film, he came to several conclusions. The first was that he'd never join the army, no matter what. The second was that John looked like he belonged, in the video. He was calm, his movements sure. He was authorative. He went from shooting an insurgent to saving a life in under five seconds and the way he moved it seemed like John had been born to be both, army doctor and soldier.

Sherlock also thought that whatever he'd previously seen and deduced about John's skills as a marksman, he'd have to re-evaluate. But now that he was getting a glimpse of one 47 minute period of John's life in the army on active duty in Afghanistan, he realized the full scale of the trauma John must have endured. He'd been in the army nearly fifteen years. Not all that time had been spent in war zones, but John had been on his fourth tour of duty in Afghanistan when the siege currently played out on the telly occurred.

If one hour on one afternoon could literally scar a man like this, what must the rest of it have been like? John had said this wasn't the first time they'd been under attack.

Across from Sherlock, John sat watching intently. The glass of Scotch was empty, Sherlock filled it again, watching his friend's face. Tears were streaming down the doctor's face but he didn't seem to notice, his gaze was glued to the screen. His breathing caught every now and then on a sob and in tense situations and it reminded Sherlock of John during one of his more violent nightmares. And now John was reliving it for real.

Sherlock sat back down in his armchair and steepled his hands together under his chin. Onscreen, the siege continued. John shouted something about a chopper and needing a medevac immediately. The man in the armchair was trembling now, cold sweat covering his forehead.

But John's eyes remained glued to the TV screen. Another grenade exploded and John instinctively ducked even though he was sitting in a flat in London. One hand shot up to his face, tracing a burn pattern and scar tissue on his right cheek that had long since healed. He could still smell his singed hair.

In the video, Captain Watson kept dashing about the casualties, instructing everyone who was able to help bring their comrades to safety and to apply pressure to their wounds. The ground was stained with blood.

Sherlock watched his friend closely, both of them tensing for the one thing they both knew happened that day that they hadn't seen yet.

"Heather!" John calls out as he sees the female officer being hit on screen. While sitting in his armchair, John mirrors his motions from that day. Kneeling next to her, applying pressure to her leg, avoiding the sharp piece of metal that had lodged in her thigh. He knew he couldn't pull it out; knew the risk that she'd bleed out. He used the last of the gauze and bandages on her.

On screen, John stood up when he heard "all clear." He looked around, looking for a medical kit. In Baker Street, John tensed even more.

Shaking, but rigid, his fingers dug into the armchair while his toes pressed into the carpet. He knew what was coming. This was the moment. The moment his life changed. That moment that turned him from being Captain John Watson to Doctor Watson.

Sherlock deduced what was about to happen. He got up again very quietly so he wouldn't startle John. Then the detective went to stand behind his best friend and gently placed his palms on the top of John's shoulders.

For a second, John didn't even realize. Both men's attention was on the TV screen. It all went eerily quiet. And then there was a single gun shot that echoed through the yard in Afghanistan just like it echoed through the flat in London.

John lurched forward and the cry he gave made Sherlock's blood run cold. In the video, John collapsed on top of Heather, half protecting her using himself as a body shield, half not being able to keep upright.

Sherlock started to gently massage John's shoulders, all the while his gaze was fixed on the TV screen. John let out a shuddering breath.

"I don't… I've never seen what… what happened…after…." He eventually got out. After John had been shot, ten of his men returned fire. Then someone grabbed John and rolled him off of Heather.

In London, John winced when he saw himself. Half his face was burned and scratched. He'd broken his arm in the fall. He was bleeding heavily from an injury to his leg that he hadn't really noticed before.

But then the picture filled with a close up of John's shoulder wound and the blogger had to try his best not to vomit. "Oh god!" John had clasped his hands in front of his mouth and tries hard to breathe through them.

"Jesus, John!..." Sherlock gasped, shocked at the extent of John's injury. "I had no idea…." Sherlock watched the scene with an open mouth. Almost involuntarily, John's hand reached up to his scar and rubbed it, while Sherlock kept massaging both shoulders. The TV screen is filled with blood, John's blood, gushing out of him at an alarming speed.

His entire shoulder is destroyed, Sherlock can see bits of muscle and bone in the wound. Of course he'd known that John must have sustained a horrific injury for him to be invalided home. But John had always been so private, Sherlock had never even seen the scar in all the years sharing a flat with the man.

On screen, John was desperately trying to cling on to consciousness. His eye lids fluttered, his tanned face had become impossibly white and he was quickly losing the fight. Half his unit was next to him, shouting things like "Stay with us, doc!" and "John, can you hear me?" and "We need bandages, get him to the chopper, the doc's been shot! Move, move, move!"

Someone was kneeling next to John and they were calm. "John, look at me! Look at me, Captain! You'll be fine, we'll be out of here in a few, you'll see, just keep your eyes open!"

John's reply was faint, it was an obvious struggle for him to speak. "Not… gonna make it… so cold…"

"No, John! Don't you dare close your eyes, damn it!"

And then, barely audible, Sherlock heard John say the words he'd said during that drugs bust all those moons ago. John's voice was a whisper "Please… god… let me live…"

And with that, the John on screen lost consciousness. He would not wake up again for a week

Sitting in his armchair, John was quietly sobbing, the images on screen together with the pain memory and flashbacks his mind provided too much for him to take. He'd curled up on the seat but had grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand which was still on his shoulder.

The detective was at a loss regarding what to do. These were exactly the sort of situations he usually avoided. He had no interest or experience in emotions and usually didn't care. But this was John, and he would make damn sure he'd do his best tonight to be there for his friend.

The video ended with John, Heather and another soldier being airlifted out of the mosque complex. Sherlock sighed in relief when the screen finally turned black, not because he was glad to be rid of the images, but he was glad that John didn't have to endure any more of it.

"John… I…" for once, Sherlock didn't know what to say. He searched his mind. 'What would John do in a situation like this?' It took him a minute, until his mind supplied 'Tea. John makes tea when people are upset.'

"Erm… I'm making tea, do you want a cuppa?" He could have slapped himself. 'That wasn't very original.'

"Yes, please. Thank you, Sherlock…" John tried his hardest to get his emotions under control. Sherlock excused himself to the kitchen, while John got up and went to sit on the sofa, wanting to put distance between himself and the DVD. The gunshots and screams were still echoing in his ears, his shoulder was throbbing and his leg shaking.

It was the first time he'd seen himself getting shot and also the first time he saw the full extent of his shoulder wound. Of course he understood the medical terminology, what with being a doctor and all, but seeing it was different. When he'd woken up from the coma he'd slipped into after suffering cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital, the wound had already been operated on and wrapped. Not for the first time, John thought 'How am I still alive?'

Sherlock was rummaging through the kitchen, looking for teabags. As he never really made tea himself, or used the kitchen for its intended purpose, it took him until the kettle was almost boiling to spot the box of Yorkshire tea bags sitting on the counter next to the toaster.

John didn't see Sherlock dash into his bedroom to retrieve a packet of sleeping pills, just in case. Sherlock had started leaving sleeping pills and a glass of water for John, or even mixed them into his tea, when his nightmares got too much for the soldier to handle. There was no way John wouldn't dream about Afghanistan tonight if he managed to sleep at all, so Sherlock wanted to ensure that John got as restful a night's sleep as possible under the circumstances. Sherlock placed the pills on the kitchen counter so they would be handy if needed.

John had retreated to the sofa where he now sat with his head between his knees, willing the images, sounds and tears away.

"John?" He looked up to find Sherlock standing in front of him with a steaming mug of tea. He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands and reached for the striped mug his friend was holding out to him.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Well, now that you know what my nightmares are about, you must think I'm pathetic. A soldier, afraid of the sights and sounds of war…"

"I would never think that you're pathetic, John! Moronic maybe, for joining up in the first place, but never pathetic. You lived through a major trauma. And what I've just seen is probably only the tip of the proverbial iceberg of the things you have seen and endured. You were held captive, but you kept calm. You kept your men calm. You fought your way out of there and you sacrificed your own well-being to ensure everyone made it out alive. Never, ever think that the effects all this had on you made you pathetic in any way!"

John looked up a bit startled. He'd not expected Sherlock to care this much, despite the concern the detective had displayed throughout the evening. The cup of tea was already more than he expected, but he was glad Sherlock was there just the same.

Sherlock could read the thoughts on John's face.

"I may have to amend a statement I made ages ago, John. I said that heroes don't exist. But tonight, you showed me proof that that's not the case. You may not wear a cape or some other ridiculous outfit that the majority of the population believes is needed in order to be heroic, but you, John Watson, are a hero nonetheless. It's just taken me this long to fully comprehend."

John had to laugh at that while he wiped the remaining tears away. Trust Sherlock to delete the solar system from his memory but remember the proper attire of comic superheroes.

"I'm really not a hero, though. I did my duty, followed my orders." John took a sip of his tea and was surprised to find that Sherlock had remembered he took his tea with a liberal dash of milk and one spoonful of sugar.

"I'm glad, in a way that this video exists. It confirmed my nightmares for the most part. At least now I know the images are real and I'm not actually going mad. Even though seeing it unravel from a different perspective made it all a bit surreal. I watched myself and kept thinking 'Keep your head down, you idiot' and 'that bullet impacted two feet away from you, get out'. But I know that while it was happening, I didn't think at all. I just reacted. None of the sounds, the sights, all the blood and gore – it never really bothered me while I was still out there. I've treated wounds like mine and I've seen friends get shot and killed. I just don't know why this out of all the things I've seen, keeps repeating itself in my head over and over again…"

"Maybe it was reaction, maybe it was instinct. John, you strive on the danger and adrenaline. Otherwise, you wouldn't still live with me or accompany me to crime scenes. We've chased criminals, got injured, were shot at and even kidnapped. And yet, you stop in your tracks as soon as someone needs medical attention. You've killed a man to save my life without hesitation and you barely knew me then. And at the pool, you kept calm, signaled S.O.S. like you'd been trained to do and tackled Moriarty to give me a chance to escape. You're not pathetic at all John. You're courageous beyond compare. And I for one am proud to know you! I've known Doctor Watson for ages now, but I mean it, it's an honour to have finally seen Captain Watson in action."

John chuckled and shook his head. His breathing had returned to normal and the tea had definitely helped. He got up to make his way to his bedroom in order to get changed.

"Before you go, John, there's one more thing." Sherlock turned towards the desk to retrieve an item. "Mycroft has asked me to give this to you." He handed over a crisp white, heavy envelope with a red wax seal, addressed to Captain John Hamish Watson, MBBS, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Sherlock had a fair idea what it would contain. John thought he did too, after Mycroft had told him he'd receive the Military Cross with one bar.

John held the envelope in his hand, weighing it. He turned it over to inspect the seal, traced a finger across the outlines in the wax and then across his name on the front. Sherlock handed him a letter opener and John carefully opened it.

Inside was a heavy card. He read it, his eyes growing wider and wider at every line he read. When he got to the bottom, he read it again.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Could you pinch me? In the arm? I just want to make sure that this is actually happening."

"Sure, if you want me to…" Sherlock pinched John's left arm and his fingernails left indentations in the flesh.

"Nope, still here, this must be real then…" John's face had gone white, his eyes still wide and a look of disbelief and incomprehension still on his face. He dropped heavily back down onto the couch. His hand was trembling as he looked up to Sherlock and held out the card to him.

Sherlock took the crisp card from his flat mate and muttered under his breath as he read the finely printed words inscribed on it.

"Her Majesty The Queen requests the honour of the company of Captain John Hamish Watson, MBBS at a reception in honour of the holders of the Victoria Cross and the George Cross, during which he will be invested with the Victoria Cross for conspicuous acts of valour and extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy in Afghanistan in 2009…" Sherlock looked at John, his expression dumbfounded for once.

"This is an invitation for you…"

"Victoria Cross Investiture…. Yeah."

Sherlock returned to the card which further stated that the investiture ceremony would be held in two weeks from Sunday at the Ballroom in Buckingham Palace.

"John… I don't know what to say! Congratulations! This is a huge honour!"

"I know, Sherlock! The Military Cross was big enough. But the Victoria Cross? Me? Is this some sort of elaborate prank Mycroft's trying to play? I don't believe this, Sherlock…"

He looked up at his ebony-haired flat mate who had already turned around and refilled their scotch glasses liberally, that was to say, to the brim. Sherlock was beaming across his entire face, genuinely pleased and John grinned back when the importance and meaning of it all started to sink in. The detective handed John his glass.

"A toast! To you, Captain John Hamish Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Victoria Cross recipient, hero and best friend and flat mate a consulting detective could hope for! For Queen and Country!" Sherlock raised his glass.

"In Arduis Fidelis – Quo Fata Vocant", John replied, clinked his glass against Sherlock's and sipped his whisky.

"Faithful in adversity, where destiny takes me?" Sherlock translated the Latin.

"The mottos of the RAMC and the Northumberland Fusiliers. They fit quite nicely, don't you think?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement around his scotch glass. Just then, John's text alert chimed.

"CONGRATULATIONS, CAPTAIN WATSON. WELL AND TRULY DESERVED. – MH"

"How the hell does your brother know that I've just read the letter? You know what? I probably don't want to know the answer to that. I'm gonna wake up tomorrow and find that this was all a dream, won't I?"

"I somehow doubt that, John. Although there will probably be quite a bit of media focus on you now, especially after the news story today."

"Oh shit! I hadn't really thought about that at all! Damn it!" he groaned. "I don't want the attention. This was a secret for so long, it doesn't feel right that it's all coming to light! And I maintain, I only did my job that day and every other day I was out there. What do I do?"

"Well, I can always lend you the Death Frisbee. That might throw them off for a while ..."

Even though John shot Sherlock a look that said 'You've gotta be kidding me', he still smiled at the thought. He noticed Sherlock had sat down across from him, shot him another look and both men began to break into uncontrollable giggles. Sherlock felt genuine relief that he seemed to have managed to cheer John up despite the evening he'd had.

John's phone rang and he groaned when he saw the caller ID. It was Anthea. She needed to get quotes from him for the press statement they were preparing as the media demanded to hear from John himself. Diligently, John answered her questions, explained how he felt and what an honour it was to receive not only the Military Cross, but also the highest honour in the land. However, always modest, he once again pressed the point that all he did was his job. She made him confirm the operations he'd been part of, where he had been based. After what seemed like an eternity to John, She finally rang off, saying she had everything she needed for now.

While John had been on the phone, Sherlock had studied him as he'd paced up and down through the living room. Obviously the limp John had when they'd first met was only partially psychosomatic. He'd now seen proof that there was an actual injury to his leg when shrapnel from a grenade had lodged in his thigh. Sherlock was still amazed that this kind, caring man with his love for tea, jam on toast and wooly jumpers could shrug off the absolute trauma he'd been through so successfully. Sherlock had always known something big must have happened as the army doesn't send soldiers or doctors home permanently when there was a chance they could recuperate from their injuries in due time. And yet, John insisted it wasn't that big a deal, even after Sherlock had seen the video and John had been told he'd get the highest military honour of the United Kingdom for his actions.

When looking at John, most people saw the nice guy next door who held the door open for ladies, who had a charming smile he knew how to use and that country doctor air about him. Men saw a down to earth bloke who'd meet up for drinks at the pub, who'd be up for rugby or five-a-side football and a few laughs. Women saw a man who made them feel safe and who their mothers would whole-heartedly approve of.

Sherlock and Lestrade had seen him chase criminals, shoot with impeccable aim, always standing his ground in a fight and never shying away from helping someone in need. They'd also seen him in medical emergencies keeping a calm head and a steady hand, zoning out all background actions and noise to focus entirely on his patient. John knew how to follow order and how to give them. Sherlock had always assumed John was half mocking him when he ordered the detective to clean up the flat, dispose of the body parts in the fridge or buy the milk.

But now that he'd seen Captain Watson rather than Doctor Watson quietly and confidently taking charge of three units, all of which followed his command immediately and unquestioningly, Sherlock couldn't help but look at his friend with even more new found respect.

And just like Mycroft earlier, Sherlock thought that silent waters run deep. He made a decision and sent a quick text to his brother.

"I'D LIKE TO SEE HIS FULL SERVICE RECORD. ALSO, BOOK A TABLE FOR THREE AT GALVIN AT WINDOWS FOR 7.30PM TOMORROW. WILL THAT DO, BROTHER? – SH"

The reply came almost instantly.

"CONSIDER THE TABLE BOOKED. I'VE GOT MORE TO GIVE TO JOHN, I WILL BRING THE FILE BY TOMORROW. –MH"


	7. Chapter 7: Public Appreciation

Chapter 7: Public Appreciation

John still sat on the sofa, letting everything that had happened during the day sink in. He'd get the Victoria Cross! 'Bloody hell', he thought, not for the first time that day. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his damaged shoulder, which Sherlock noticed.

"Would you rather have a heat pack or ice pack for that?"

John looked up startled, a confused frown on his face.

"Your shoulder. You've been rubbing it. It clearly bothers you."

"Oh, erm, heat pack. There's a microwaveable gel pack in the bathroom cabinet."

Sherlock went to retrieve it and heated it up while John sipped his whisky, savouring the taste. Within a minute, Sherlock reappeared at John's side, holding the heated gel cushion in his hand.

John got up and turned away from Sherlock to take off his cardigan. He loosened the top buttons of his shirt and tried to wedge the cushion between his shoulder and the inside of his shirt.

"I've never…" Sherlock started, which earned him a puzzled look from John, who had turned around again to face him.

"…Can I see it? Your scar?"

Of course people had seen his scar before. Doctors, therapists, girlfriends. He was still a bit self-conscious because of it, though. Kept himself covered when he could, stopped going for swims and if he went to the gym, he showered at home. But his mind reasoned that Sherlock had just seen a video of the damage the bullet had caused in glorious technicolour. What remained now was clean scar-tissue, even though it still looked angry and ugly.

John deliberated for a few seconds before he made up his mind, nodded slightly and turned around to face the windows again. He opened his shirt more and pushed it off his shoulders, letting it hang in the crooks of his elbows.

Sherlock was surprised. Judging from what he'd seen, he had expected a much bigger wound. There was a fairly round, indented spot the size of a twenty pence coin on the back of John's shoulder blade, that was dark red, with raised edges, in stark contrast to John's tanned skin. He was just about to say how that scar shouldn't worry John at all, when his flat mate turned around to face him.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. The front of John's shoulder was another matter entirely. The scar-tissue covered the whole of John's left shoulder, from his collarbone to right above his heart. Even though the scar was already several years old, it hadn't faded to grey lines. A massive starburst pattern, at least six times the size of the entry wound, right in the centre with severe tissue damage around it showed Sherlock where the bullet had exited John's body and what trajectory it had taken. Had the angle been off by even just two percent, the bullet would have torn through John an inch or two further down and left and John would have returned home in a body bag instead. Whatever ammunition John's captors had used, it had penetrated John's body armour and had not been from a small calibre gun.

Red, ridged lines, some thick like a pencil, some as thin as a hair, wormed their way outwards from the edges of the starburst at the centre. Sherlock couldn't decide whether it looked like the scars were trying to crawl out of the centre and claim John or whether they were being sucked into the black hole that was the exit wound. The scar wasn't pretty. It wasn't meant to be. It was a battle scar. It spoke of the circumstances under which it was received and the fight John's body had put up against the sepsis that had been trying to destroy him.

Sherlock could tell that it had taken several operations to reset the damaged bone. With his usual complete disregard for personal boundaries, Sherlock got closer and poked the scar once. John just looked at him, slightly amused, but didn't say anything before lifting his gaze and staring straight ahead. He knew he had basically just become another slide under the microscope. With feather-light touch, Sherlock was tracing one of the ridges. When John didn't react, Sherlock looked up.

"Nerve damage. I can barely feel a thing there. I can feel pressure against it, but nothing else", John explained. Sherlock nodded and inspected the scar further. The angry, darkened lines showed Sherlock the extent of the blood poisoning John had suffered and how much dead and damaged tissue had to be lifted out of the wound. While Sherlock was studying his injuries, John didn't move a muscle and Sherlock noted that despite having left the army several years ago, John maintained a trained physique. Sherlock knew John tried to work out regularly, a habit retained from his army days. What surprised Sherlock was the amount of other scars across John's chest and torso.

"I played rugby and spent fifteen years in the army. You tend to pick up a few nicks here and there" John explained casually.

Once Sherlock had satisfied his curiosity, he helped John keep the heat pack in place while the doctor buttoned up his shirt again.

As John sat back down, Sherlock picked up his violin and started to play Land of Hope and Glory, as he thought it was strangely fitting. John smiled and waited for Sherlock to finish playing before he emptied his whisky glass.

"Right then. I'm off to bed… And thanks again, Sherlock, for being here tonight. I mean it."

"Good night, John. Anytime."

Sherlock watched the soldier retreat up the stairs to his bedroom. Then he went to the kitchen, put the kettle on and filled a thermos with hot water. He placed the thermos together with two mugs, tea bags, sugar and creamer, as well as the sleeping pills he'd retrieved earlier, on a tray and placed all of it on the coffee table.

He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight anyway and he wasn't fooled by John's brave face and demeanour. He could almost sense the nightmares coming on and he knew it was only a matter of hours before John would be back downstairs and trying to clear his head with tea.

This was the way they'd always dealt with John's nightmares at 221b Baker Street. Tried, tested and trusted. Now that Sherlock had seen the images that kept repeating themselves inside John's head, he began to understand how John's mind had to make sense of them, but Sherlock couldn't fathom what it must have been like to live through.

About an hour and a half later, Sherlock was softly playing the violin, composing a new melody in the living room, when he heard John's tentative footsteps on the stairs. When the detective looked up, John stood in the doorway, clad in his pyjamas and a bathrobe, hair disheveled and the streaks of fresh tears drying on his face.

"Do you mind if I sit for a while? Can't sleep…" John mumbled. Sherlock looked at him and pointed his head towards the sofa and the tea set he'd put out.

"Cheers", John said when he sat down and started pouring himself some tea,

"Care to join me for a cuppa?" he asked and Sherlock sat down while John poured the tea.

"What was that you were playing? I don't think I've heard it before."

"Hm? Oh that! It's not finished yet. I just came up with it, still working it out. What did you think of it?"

"Oh, I've just heard a bit but it sounds really beautiful, Sherlock."

"Thanks."

They both sat in silence sipping their tea. Sherlock noticed how, little by little, the tension of the nightmare slowly left John's body. They both knew why John had come downstairs, what had kept him from sleeping. But they also knew that the other knew what was going on and it was a testament to their friendship that they could sit next to each other in silence and let their body language and actions say everything that needed to be said.

John was grateful that he didn't have to repeat himself and Sherlock still felt awkward in emotional situations. But he had learned long ago that John was worth putting a bit of effort in.

After they'd both finished their drinks and John had gladly taken the sleeping aid Sherlock had so thoughtfully put out for him, John asked "Do you mind if I sit here a lit longer?" The 'I really don't want to be alone tonight' was implied, but Sherlock heard it anyway.

"Course not."

"Sherlock, could you, erm, do me a favour? Could you play for me? Anything you want, it just usually calms me down and I like hearing you play, so I thought, if you don't mind…?"

Sherlock smiled at him, picked up his Stradivarius again and turned back towards the large windows. John smiled to himself when he heard Sherlock beginning to play The Lark Ascending. The detective knew it was one of his favourites.

John settled down on the sofa, lying on his back, trying to focus on the music rather than the images in his mind. Sherlock kept playing and started Gideon Klein's Lullaby. Once the last note was lingering in the living room of 221b, he glanced over to his flat mate. There he was, John Watson, doctor, soldier and war hero, peacefully asleep on the leather couch.

Sherlock got out one of the shock blankets they'd nicked from a case a while ago, covered John's sleeping frame with it, pushed the cup of tea away from the edge of the coffee table and resumed playing his instrument. He kept composing until the break of the new day.

When John woke up, there was a split second during which he didn't know where he was. This was definitely not his bedroom. Then his eyes adjusted to the light and he recognised the skull on the mantelpiece. 'Must have fallen asleep on the couch then' he mused. And then another thought occurred to him. It was quiet. Too quiet. He couldn't hear Sherlock rummaging around.

He'd long ago adopted the same mindset around the lanky detective that mothers have around toddlers. If you can't hear them, then they are definitely up to no good. But just as he was thinking that, Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, wiping shaving cream off his face with a towel and proceeding into his bedroom to get changed.

John admitted he should probably do the same. Shower, shave, shirt. Preferably in that order.

He retreated upstairs to his bedroom to grab a change of clothes and then made his way to the bathroom. When he emerged, fully dressed and with some sense of normality restored, he nearly stopped dead in his tracks when he entered the kitchen.

Sherlock had cleared away all his experiments and laid the kitchen table for breakfast, He'd even gotten out a tablecloth John didn't even know they owned – it was a white, fitted sheet – and just as John was about to ask what all this was for, his eyes fell on the white envelope Sherlock had placed near John's chair.

All the events of the previous night came flooding back to John. He looked up at Sherlock.

"So I didn't just imagine all of that then, huh?"

"If by all that you mean that everyone now knows about your heroics in Afghanistan, watched it all on film and had two medals bestowed on you, then no, you didn't imagine it."

"Ah, ok. Didn't think so." John sat down and grabbed the mug of tea Sherlock was offering him. He read through the letter again. "I don't think that this has sunk in yet… they're giving me the Victoria Cross. That's the highest honour you can receive in this country. And they're giving it to me! Me! Out of all people!" John shook his head and carefully placed the invitation back in its envelope.

Sherlock put a plate of food down in front of him and John stared at it for a second or two. For all the complicated chemistry experiments Sherlock devoted his free time to, he still seemed to have a hard time following the science and instructions of basic cooking. John smiled to himself. The egg was slightly too runny and the bacon slightly too cremated for his liking, but he ate it all because Sherlock had gone out of his way, made such an effort and John appreciated the thought behind it.

Just as they had finished their breakfasts, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. "Good morning, dears."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson", John said on his way back past the table after having placed the plates in the sink.

"Oh John! My dear boy!" she exclaimed and hugged John tightly. Taken slightly by surprise, John stood for a second with his arms by his sides before embracing their landlady.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course I'm alright, silly!" She stepped back slightly, and held him at arm's length.

"Oh you brave boy, surviving all that in Afghanistan, getting shot! Dreadful business!"

Now she was busy brushing a few crumbs of toast away from John's shirt.

"You could have died! And nobody told me that my tenant is a war hero!"

She sent a scolding look towards Sherlock who chose to ignore it.

"But congratulations, John! The Victoria Cross! You must be so pleased!"

"I… erm… Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Nobody knew, it was top secret. And yes, I'm well chuffed though I don't think I deserve it."

"Nonsense, boy! You deserve it, I'm certain. And then you go off with Sherlock, putting yourself in danger…" another pointed look towards the consulting detective which also got ignored.

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, I just can't help it" John grinned. But then he remembered something.

"How do you know about me getting the Victoria Cross? Did Sherlock or Mycroft tell you?"

"What? Oh that! No, dear, it's all over the news…"

John groaned. Great. Just what he needed.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, Mycroft didn't waste any time, did he?"

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock, who wordlessly took out another mug for Mrs. Hudson while the landlady went downstairs to fetch the Sunday papers.

"I had no idea that story yesterday was about you, John! I mean, I know you were an army doctor, but I never expected you…, you know? I can't even imagine, you being held prisoner, saving all those people…"

John just smiled at her. "Well, there are some things I do not miss while working at the GP surgery…"

Mrs. Hudson handed him the pile of Sunday papers. John took one look and groaned. "Where did they get that photo of me? And all the rest? Sherlock, The Observer, Sunday Times, The Independent and The Telegraph made me their front page story! Tell Mycroft this has to stop! I don't want this. I did my job and my duty. End of. Hundreds of doctors and thousands of soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq are doing pretty much the same thing. It's bad enough one of the two of us gets recognised all the time!"

He opened up the Express. "Oh great, here we go! Page 5… 'Net 'Tec's hero sidekick.'" Sherlock just grinned. "Oh stop being so dramatic, John. The offer to borrow the Death Frisbee still stands."

John buried his face in his hands.

"Nevertheless, I think celebrations are in order as John won't just get the Victoria Cross, but also the Military Cross with one bar. Mrs. Hudson, would you accompany John and me to dinner tonight? We should make the most of John's new hero status before the novelty wears off again."

John and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other and the at Sherlock, puzzled.

"Hang on, Sherlock. Dinner? You? You're taking us" he waved a hand between himself and their landlady "out to dinner?"

"Yes, John, dinner. It's when you eat food in the evening. I trust that the concept is not too hard to grasp. Do keep up. It's a nice restaurant, we'll be picked up at 7pm."

"Oh, thank you Sherlock, dear. That's very kind of you. I'll leave you two to it for now. I'll see you tonight", Mrs. Hudson said and excused herself.

"So what brought this on, Sherlock?"

"Well, I've been given to understand that you might like something different than dim sum every now and then. And we do have something to celebrate."

"Fair enough."

John settled down to read the papers. He huffed and puffed a few times, obviously annoyed by the 'official' story that had been released by the MoD. In fact,, he was more annoyed that they'd printed something about the medals before he had a chance to tell at least Harry himself.

As if on cue, his mobile rang.

"Watson… Oh hi, Harry. How are you?" There was a long pause. "Yes, Harry, that was really me… No, I didn't have a death wish; I was doing my job… Harry, I wasn't allowed to tell anyone…. I came back, didn't I? Takes more than that to get rid of me, you should know, you've been trying since I was born… Yes they're really giving me those medals… Thank you, Harry… Ok, talk soon. Bye!"

John sighed. He'd never told Harry about any of his Afghanistan experiences. He'd kept his updates from the front light-hearted. When he'd been invalided home, she'd freaked.

Sherlock was busy typing away at John's laptop, after having guessed the doctor's new password in less than a minute. "John, you do realize that 'sherlockuseyourowncomputer' all one word, lower case, is not an effective password, don't you?" John just rolled his eyes.

The next call came about half an hour later. John glanced at his phone and saw the caller ID for Scotland Yard.

"Morning, Greg!"

"Oh, hi, good morning, John. How are you?"

"Not too bad, and yourself?"

"Can't complain."

"Um… is there a case? Do you want me to fetch Sherlock?" John asked after a couple of seconds silence.

"No, no case. Actually, I wanted to talk to you. To… er… thank you… I guess."

"Thank me? What for, Lestrade?"

"Well, everything you did over there, in Afghanistan. I had no idea, mate. Knew there was more to that nice doctor with a gun routine, though."

"So you're just calling to thank me for going to Afghanistan?"

"Pretty much...yeah. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate everything you've done out of duty. My cousin is deployed over there, so I mean it! I had no idea you army doctors got so close to the action!"

"Thank you, Greg. Army doctors don't get anywhere near the front line. I was there because I was a fully combatant soldier. I'll explain the details over a pint, yeah?"

"Oh, ok. Oh and congratulations, by the way. Victoria Cross, aye?"

"Yeah. It's still a bit surreal to be honest. I take it you've read the papers then, or you wouldn't call out of the blue at 10.23am on a Sunday morning to thank me for doing a tour of duty in Afghanistan."

"Yep. Observer. Sorry, didn't mean to disturb ya, just wanted to let you know that it's good to have you on our side."

"Thanks, Greg, I appreciate it. I really do."

"Ok, good. Um… I'll let you know if there are any cases we need you guys for."

"You do that. Take care, Greg."

"You too!"

John put his mobile back down. "Well, that was Lestrade."

"I gathered."

"Of course you did. He'll let us know if he needs help with a case."

Sherlock abandoned the computer in favour of his experiments, which he quickly distributed all over the kitchen table again. John received a few more congratulatory phone calls on his mobile from friends and colleagues throughout the morning, but the landline was ringing off the hook with reporters wanting to get an exclusive interview with John. It got to a point, where Sherlock simply pulled the phone out of the socket to solve the problem of it ringing constantly.

Eventually, John decided that he needed a bit of air and ventured outside to go to the shops. They were nearly out of milk and bread anyway and he thought he might treat himself to a few bottles of beer and some sweets for once as he usually wasn't one to indulge.

But going to Asda was not as easy as it normally was. As soon as he stepped out of the door, he was surrounded by journalists and photographers, all of whom tried to get him to answer questions and look at the camera. He tried his best to ignore them and the camera flashes, saying "no comment" over and over again. Luckily, he had years' worth of experience dealing with the press, thanks to some of Sherlock's more high profile cases.

As he made his way down the street, he noticed a group of Mycroft's agents swiftly moving in and moving the mob along in the opposite direction.

Even doing the shopping was not as straight-forward as it should have been. He went through the shop swiftly and smoothly, keeping his head down as he knew where he was going. He didn't linger, just grabbed the items he wanted and moved on. The girls at the check-out however recognized him immediately. That got the people in the queue behind him talking, patting his shoulders and back, shaking his hand and wishing him the best of luck. The throng of people grew so large that the store manager eventually intervened. He beamed about having a hero shop in his store and gave John his items on the house, while John grimaced and dryly thought that he should have picked something more expensive than a selection of real ales, milk, bread and a few blocks of chocolate. Luckily, John had gotten out of there just before several pensioners could get started on their own war stories.

What should have been a simple, twenty minute shopping trip took him the better part of one and a half hours. John was relieved to see that the group of journalists around Baker Street had been kept at bay and sagged against the door once he was safely back inside 221b.

"Oh John, there you are! Mycroft's upstairs, looking for you", Mrs. Hudson said as she spotted him at the bottom of the stairs. John sighed.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Today just keeps getting better and better…" He smiled at her before he slowly made his way upstairs.


	8. Chapter 8: Not Going Back

Not Going Back

Sherlock and his brother sat across from each other in the armchairs, both sitting with their legs crossed and fingers tapping away at the armrests, apparently in the middle of an intense staring contest.

John decided to put the groceries away first. Mycroft didn't look like he was going to leave anytime soon.

"Hello Mycroft. Thanks for the press statement, much appreciated! All of Britain knows me now and believe it or not, I still don't want to talk about that day, let alone with complete strangers!" John huffed as he entered the lounge.

"Ah yes, John. We had to release a statement, you know that. After all, my lovely assistant spoke to you yesterday to get quotes from you for it. We received the information that The Daily Mail had managed to identify you from the pixilated photographs and we made the decision to issue an official confirmation before the rumours could spread."

"Yeah well… I wasn't exactly thinking straight when I spoke to Anthea last night. A little head's up that this was going to appear today would have been nice. I couldn't even tell my sister or Mrs. Hudson in person. Next to getting shot, this is the biggest thing to ever happen to me and I couldn't even tell the ones closest to me myself! I'd like to think that I've known you Holmes brothers long enough to expect that sort of courtesy, at least. I don't think that's too much to ask for, do you?"

Mycroft tried his best to look suitably chastised for a second, but John held up his hand and continued. He had to get some things off his chest, after all.

"It's all a bit much, don't you think? Yesterday, I had to watch and relive the worst day of my life. Then you dropped a bombshell by telling me that I'll not only get the Military Cross, but also the Victoria Cross for the actions I had to watch myself take. Do you have any idea what it's like to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder? I know you believe I never had it to start with, but let me tell you, as a doctor, that it's real and it's debilitating! I'd gotten better over the last few years. Yesterday tore all my effort and hard worked-for progress to shreds; it was like I was there again, experiencing it all again. That day, that afternoon, is playing on repeat in my mind, Mycroft, and now I have strangers come up to me asking for all the gory details!"

"John, while I understand your view, you know we didn't leak the story. We had to release an official statement and it was best to identify you and get quotes from you as well, rather than have the nation speculate, eventually work it out and have half the press in this country camp on your doorstep to get a comment. Please believe me that I am not in the habit of divulging information about top secret operations freely, nor do I have any interest in making your long term medical condition worse."

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think, Mycroft?"

John sat down on the sofa with his back ramrod straight and his hands between his knees.

"John, I know you have been through more than that video showed." Mycroft held up a thick manila file with John's name and rank in bold lettering written across the cover.

"Mycroft! Bloody hell, are those my service records? What are you doing with my file?" The former soldier wasn't just agitated anymore, he was downright furious.

"I came by to give it to you. You can choose how much you feel comfortable sharing, of course, it is your own information after all, but if the recurrence of your PTSD-induced night terrors is anything to go by, I suggest that you either tell my brother about the rest or you let him read your file. I guarantee he has the necessary security clearance."

"Mycroft Holmes, who I share my entire life story with and when is none of your bloody business! How would you like having to share your entire career with me in detail, hm? All the bad decisions, everything you have seen, done, had to endure?" John looked at Mycroft expectantly, but the government official chose to remain silent.

"Yeah, didn't think so! And as for PTSD – there are many things that can trigger panic attacks. Reliving and watching my worst nightmare just happens to be one of those things for me as I found out last night, but it could just as well be a car backfiring or the kettle whistling!"

John was desperately trying to keep his voice calm and steady, and he clenched his hands into fists to keep the tremour away. Of course, both Holmes brothers noticed.

"John, I didn't come here with the intention of upsetting you. You need to understand that."

"Then what did you come here for, Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mycroft, to what do we owe the disputable pleasure of your company, on a Sunday no less?" Sherlock had been quiet until then, watching John intently.

"I came here to congratulate John on the Victoria Cross. I knew they'd make the right decision. It was a toss-up between this and the George Cross for a while, but in the end, John's actions were the very definition of what the Victoria Cross stands for – daring valour, self-sacrifice and extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy – and the final decision was unanimous."

Mycroft smiled tight-lipped at John. "While checking your military records though, I have come across a matter that I'd like to discuss with you."

John looked up at Mycroft, intrigue and worry equally visible on his face.

"I know you left the Royal Army Medical Corps in 2002, became an officer and you were invalided home in 2009 when you received a medical discharge. However, just like you are a registered GP with the General Medical Council, you also retained your membership of the Medical Defense Union."

John took that statement in and thought about it for a few seconds. His brows knitted together in confusion.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, Mycroft?"

"I'm afraid so. For some reason, it appears you were kept on the reserve register as an army GP."

John gasped, a million emotions playing across his face within seconds. But shock and disbelief were the ones that remained when he found his voice again.

"What? Come again?" he asked, incredulous and with wide eyes.

"That's got to be illegal! Mycroft, take me off the bloody register! I left the RAMC years ago and I was invalided home… I received a medical discharge because I'm not fit to command troops in battle anymore, thanks to the seizures I suffered. And I would have to join the RAMC again. Even if I felt fit to go, my superior would have to take responsibility for me. But who would do that? Who would take me on, given my medical history, hm? The army has a very strict policy on this, so why are they breaking their own rules? If I'm kept on the register, they could call me up again at any time and I would have to go! The army made it abundantly clear that they had no use for me anymore. I served my country for fifteen years, I won't risk being redeployed, no matter how small the chance might be! I had no say in this, wasn't even informed! Take me off the register today, Mycroft, or I swear if I get called up I'm taking you with me to see how you like life in a war zone!" John's face had gone red in anger, he was furious.

"I thought so, John. That's why I felt it best to bring it to your attention! Consider yourself discharged once and for all. I will put the paperwork through personally." Mycroft was quick to placate him, keeping cool and collected despite the fact that John looked about ready to throttle him.

"I can't believe you'd do that to me… Or rather your predecessor", John was quick to add.

"It's hard enough adjusting to civilian life after such a long time in the military. The last time I was a civilian, I was finishing med school, and even then I already had ties to the army due to the cadetship. It's even harder to adjust when you can't physically move and have to come to terms with the fact that two careers you worked your arse off for are over. Why was I kept on the register? I have a tremour in my hand, as you pointed out the very day we met, and I never regained full mobility in my shoulder. It's good, but it's not perfect and it never will be because the damage was too extensive. I'm a GP, not a surgeon. My skills as a doctor are not that rare or special that they would make me invaluable to the army. They don't need me to diagnose heat stroke or dehydration. Due to the tremor in my hand, my dominant hand I might add, I would not be able to assist in surgery if someone was severely wounded... The slightest slip of the scalpel and I could kill my patient and I would be responsible. And I wouldn't go back out there just to be a triage nurse or to clean bedpans… I'm too qualified for that!"

"John, it really wasn't my decision and I assumed you'd know, as it was in your file."

Sherlock's lips twisted up at the corners into a smirk as he shook his head, slightly amused.

"You of all people should know never to assume, Mycroft", he teased his brother.

"Well, I didn't know. What would have happened, had a letter arrived one day with my new orders, telling me that I'd ship out in three weeks' time even though I had been medically discharged? I would have to go. If I didn't, I'd be court-martialled for insubordination and would most likely still have to serve a minimum tour."

Mycroft nodded.

"How many more are there? Retired, invalided or discharged personnel kept as reserves without their knowledge even though they deserve their hard-earned civilian life? Did whoever made the decision even look at medical files? Sending soldiers with severe injuries and post-traumatic stress disorder back to the front line… That's ridiculous! After the way they treat invalided soldiers, telling us we're no good to them anymore. And the audacity to assume we'd just up and leave again on a surprise deployment we shouldn't even get in the first place!"

John had gotten up and paced back and forth in front of the sofa, desperately needing an outlet for his anger. Suddenly, he stood still and turned towards Mycroft.

"Mycroft, have you ever seen the sort of flats the Ministry of Defense provides to returning personnel who don't have anywhere else to go?"

"No, John, I can't say that I have…"

"They are bedsits, Mycroft." John interrupted before the older Holmes could say more.

"It's just the one room, maybe half the size of this living room", John pointed around the room they currently occupied at Baker Street.

"There's a tiny stove, a bed, a wardrobe and a desk. The one I was in was horrible. I had to share a toilet and bathroom with everyone else on my floor. I'm used to cramped quarters and shared facilities, but that flat was taking the piss! My Captain's quarters in Kandahar were more spacious than that! And the flats are on the outskirts of major cities. Mine was right next to the railway line, you could hear the trains go past at all hours of the night. There were no proper shops, not even an express shop anywhere within easy walking distance and it was a long walk to the nearest tube station. We got dumped in those flats with a pension that's borderline minimum wage and an extra £500 a month for healthcare and maintenance. I was one of the lucky ones, I could still walk, but others had lost their legs or needed wheelchairs. They couldn't really get out and into London proper by themselves."

John had to take a breath to slow down a bit. He got quieter again, and sounded subdued.

"No wonder then, that many returning soldiers decide to top themselves. Two from my building did, one of them right in front of me. Just took his gun out and shot himself, and I could do nothing but look on. And believe me, there were days when I first got back when I thought about it myself…"

Both Sherlock and Mycroft gasped at John's whispered confession that he had contemplated suicide before he'd moved to Baker Street.

"John… I didn't know…" Sherlock started, but the soldier cut him off.

"I never went through with it, never did anything. I just thought about it from time to time. But I simply couldn't go through with it. It would have been a coward's way out and I didn't survive the war and going into cardiac arrest just to kill myself in London. Getting killed in action would have been honourable, and we're all prepared for it. It's not a safe occupation, after all. I had just lost my purpose, everything I had worked for had been taken away and I was dumped back in London by myself with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. But now I have a purpose again, mainly thanks to Sherlock. And I'm happy now with the way my life is going, I truly am. And I'm not at risk", he assured the brothers.

"But if the Ministry of Defense thinks that they can treat us like crap, put us away in dingy little flats and expects us to jump in joy at surprise re-deployments, then your bosses are mistaken, Mycroft!"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Once again, John, I had no idea. I do thank you though, for bringing this to my attention. Rest assured, this will get sorted immediately!"

John only nodded at him, still pacing through the living room, alternating between clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to release some of the built-up tension and adrenaline.

"What I came here to tell you, John, is that there will be a review regarding the amount of maintenance pay invalided soldiers such as yourself will receive. There will be an increase, but a sum hasn't been decided on yet. Plus, the Victoria Cross comes with an annuity of GBP 1,500. As for the housing situation, we will have to look whether anything can be done."

"Ok. Great. Thank you." John glanced at Mycroft and nodded.

"Well, now that that's sorted, there is the matter of your Victoria Cross Investiture to discuss", Sherlock's brother changed the subject, swiftly moving on. "You'll be allowed to bring up to three guests..."

"Well, that's easy. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and my sister."

"I will put those names forward. Anthea will be in touch with Harriet and Mrs. Hudson regarding appropriate formal dresses they will be required to wear. I will also take care of the bill, so do not worry yourself about that. Now John, were you ever issued or did you ever order a No. 1 dress uniform?"

"No, you don't tend to wear them in Afghanistan. I have got a No. 2 dress uniform, which still fits", John explained. After all, No. 1 uniforms were expensive and he had not had cause to purchase one, nor did his regiment participate in any regular public parades that required they'd be issued a new uniform. The one time he had to wear one, he'd hired the uniform. After all, he couldn't spare nearly a thousand pounds. He did, however, buy the beret with red and white hackle, as a proud display and memento of the regiment he had called his family.

"In that case, I will have a tailor come by tomorrow to get your measurements, you will be required to wear full dress uniform. Sherlock, dig out your morning suit, you know the palace drill." The consulting detective scoffed at that and John had to wonder just how privileged the Holmes upbringing must have been if Sherlock was as familiar with the procedures and protocol at Buckingham Palace as Mycroft was implying. And realization hit him that their visit to Buckingham Palace during that Irene Adler case - the one with the sheet incident - might not have been Sherlock's first. Mycroft was definitely familiar with the Palace, if you was allowed to move around unescorted. A suspicion Mycroft confirmed.

"John, there are certain Palace protocols you should know about, but they will be taught to you closer to the time. During the Investiture, you and your fellow honourees will be called forward one by one and you will salute. Her Majesty The Queen will then give a short summary, outlining what you are receiving your award for. She will then attach the medal to your uniform; you will salute again and retreat with a quick turn. After the ceremony, there will be a banquet, attended by all honourees, their guests, the Prime Minister as well as several members of the Royal family. Cars will be provided by Buckingham Palace, although I do suggest that you have your sister meet you here so you can all travel together."

John hummed in agreement. So far, everything made sense, and his participation during the investiture didn't sound complicated, he would just have to keep his nerves under control.

"Any questions so far?"

"None at all."

"Good. As far as the bar for your Military Cross is concerned, we will deviate slightly from normal procedure. As you should wear your full honours during the Victoria Cross investiture while you meet our monarch, you will receive the bar beforehand. Unfortunately, this will not be a big affair. As you yourself are already the recipient of the Military Cross, you know the scale these ceremonies usually take. It is likely that only your commanding officers will be in attendance. However, there will be a celebration on the Saturday after your visit to Buckingham Palace. During this, your unit members will receive their Military Crosses, and you will be re-issued yours, if you wish. Once again, full dress uniform is required and although it will be an army affair, you are allowed to bring as many guests, military and civilian, as you may choose. This celebration will be held at Rickerby Hall."

Sherlock's head jerked up at that. John just looked at the brothers, he had never heard of the place but by the sound of it, he wouldn't be surprised if he found himself standing outside a Tudor mansion.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his older sibling, eyebrows slightly raised in that Holmesian fashion John knew too well. The doctor looked at Sherlock first, then at Mycroft and back at his flat mate trying to work out what they were communicating with glances alone. Eventually, he gave up.

"What is it? I've never heard of the place. Is it a hotel or something? It's not in London, is it?"

"Oh, it's in the countryside, just past Windsor. I'm sure you'll find it adequate. It'll be an afternoon and evening celebration with High Tea, dinner and drinks. Those who require to do so will be invited to spend the night. And as the guest of honour I'll have to insist that you stay, spend the night and enjoy the hospitality."

At that, Sherlock actually snorted, although he quickly schooled his features back into a mask of indifference when his brother shot him a murderous glance.

"Sherlock, you're staying too."

"Oh will I?"

"Yes, brother, you will."

John watched this exchange slightly puzzled, but then barely anything a Holmes did was comprehensible to mere mortals. But with a sinking feeling realisation hit John, that for the next two weeks at least, there'd be a lot of media attention on them, more so than usual.

"Oh, John? I know you are familiar with this, so it's just a reminder. Once you receive the Victoria Cross, you will receive salutes first, out of courtesy. As you know, to many the award in this case takes precedence over rank, so don't be startled by it."

John had turned back towards Mycroft.

"Yes, I know, thanks Mycroft. Fifteen years in the army, you pick up on these things", John chuckled.

"Quite right. Well, I really need to get back. Once again, John, I will handle the situation with the reserve register. I honestly thought it had been your informed decision."

"Actually, Mycroft, I'd like you to cross-check the names of all invalided personnel and those with medical discharges against the register and then write to them, make them aware that they are still on the register despite what they might think and give them the choice to either re-enlist if their condition allows for it, or to live a civilian life without the army interfering. Some might want to go back. I'd still be there had I not been shot and invalided - the army was all I knew. There' a difference between being medically discharged and going on sick leave, and I think it's time the army learned that."

"I agree, John." With that, Mycroft rose out of the armchair and swiftly left 221b with nods towards his younger brother and the doctor as his greeting.

As soon as his brother had left, Sherlock had gotten up and reclaimed his usual spot on the couch, in which he was now sprawled in his usual fashion.

"Hm, Mycroft must really feel guilty now that he has uncovered how his department treated people like you. He is trying to make it up top you. My brother has always had tremendous respect for titles and war heroes, so he will actually try and overhaul the way soldiers are treated. That might have been the most genuine thing Mycroft has said in he last several years." The detective steepled his hands under his chin. "I doubt they'd organise celebrations at Rickerby Hall for just anyone. In fact, I know they don't and the Hall isn't usually open to the public."

"What is Rickerby Hall? I've never heard of it before."

"There is no reason you would have. It's a place out in Buckinghamshire, just past Windsor, further along the Thames", Sherlock explained and left it at that.

"Oh. Ok, then. I guess I'll find out soon anyway."

"Indeed."

John got up and moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Without even asking whether Sherlock would like a cup of tea as well, John automatically filled two cups.

Only when he looked down at the mugs to stir in the milk did he notice that he'd grabbed his old RAMC mug for himself. Smiling at the cup, he stepped back out into the living room, handed Sherlock his tea who took it without even opening his eyes, and sat down at the desk. He decided to type up a blog post about the medals, Afghanistan and his involvement as a pre-emptive strike before the media felt the need to camp out at Baker Street for the next two weeks.

"You know, Sherlock, your brother and his people really have some nerves! Keeping discharged military personnel on the reserve register without their knowledge! Can you believe it? That's unacceptable! I could have been called up any day... after everything that happened to me. I left the war and the army behind... I left it behind... I did! Your brother has a real knack for dropping bombshells!"

"Well, you know my brother. He's never been one for doing things by halves."

"Yeah, that trait must run in the family..." John muttered under his breath.

"I heard that."

The doctor rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock had heard him. As John sat at the desk, slowly typing out a blog post carefully explaining that: Yes, it really was him in the pictures and news stories; and no, he didn't miss Afghanistan or the war; yes, he was beyond flattered to receive such prestigious awards and he still couldn't quite believe it but no, it wouldn't change his life as part of the crime-solving duo from Baker Street.

Sherlock went back to playing the violin, composing some more. While listening to his flat mate play his instrument, John decided to write another post on his blog in light of his earlier conversation with Mycroft. He knew that some of his old army buddies were following his blog and that word of mouth would travel fast and far, especially if the information came from him. He was trusted and had a reputation for not indulging in gossip. So John typed out how he'd found out that he'd been kept on the reserve register and urged each and every retired or invalided soldier to double-check their status if they didn't fancy getting re-deployed out of the blue.

Feeling rather smug and accomplished, John snapped the laptop shut and went to the kitchen to make something to eat. Rummaging through the cupboards, he finally decided to use up what they had left, which turned out to be a bag of frozen summer vegetables, some pasta and chicken breast pieces he'd bought two days before.

Sherlock usually didn't pay attention to John's cooking, but when he caught a glimpse of John rubbing what looked like sugar all over the chicken and then manhandling it into roasting bag before pouring something dark all over it, his interest had peaked.

"What on earth are you doing, John?"

"Cooking, what do you think? Believe it or not, Sherlock, but normal people actually have to eat regularly."

"Yes, thank you, doctor. What I meant is, what on earth are you doing to that poor chicken?"

"What? Oh! We're out of spice mixes so I'm making balsamic chicken. All it takes is sugar and a liberal coating of balsamic vinegar. I used to make this a lot when I was still in med school. I always had sugar and used balsamic vinegar for salads, so whenever I forgot to buy spices, I'd make this in a pinch", John explained.

At the mention of sugar ad balsamic vinegar in one recipe, Sherlock scrunched up his nose in disgust.

"Seriously, John, how you are still alive after eating that regularly is beyond me."

"Says the one who never eats to start with", John chuckled while placing the chicken in the oven.

"It tastes better than it sounds, I swear! You'll see."

John busied himself preparing the pasta and vegetables, mentally adding various items to the shopping list. When everything was cooking and simmering away, John returned to his laptop. He'd previously seen some people commenting on his blog, some of them journalists out for an exclusive no doubt, and he wanted to read through the comments while he had the chance.

But when he opened his laptop up again, the last published post displayed on his blog was the one confirming his involvement in Afghanistan and not the post about having been kept on the reserve register.

He was startled for about two seconds before a knowing feeling settled in his gut and he let out a frustrated sigh. John double-checked his blog archive and found the post set to permanently disabled, as well as an email waiting in his inbox.

"Dr. Watson, you should know better than to divulge this information on your blog. The situation is being handled. –MH"

"Oh sod off, Mycroft" the doctor muttered under his breath.

"There's something called freedom of speech, you should check up on that some time." John licked his lips and was quietly fuming as he stabbed the keys on his phone. He proceeded to send the government official a text suggesting he'd look up freedom of speech and censorship, just in more colourful language and using a few choice expletives.

Sherlock couldn't hide his amused smirk.

12


	9. Chapter 9: Classified Information

Classified Information

After lunch which did actually taste better than he would have thought, Sherlock was forced to admit after a few bites, the detective sat down across from John and fixed him with his x-ray stare. John knew that he was being deduced.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm…."

"You know, you could just ask me. I'm sitting right here."

"Hm. Asking. Boring. This is more fun… You were in the RAMC for seven years, we've already established that. And you showed me medals that confirm you served in Iraq and the Democratic Republic of Congo before Afghanistan."

"Well, yes. One tour in Congo and two in Iraq, though I was in Afghanistan between those tours in Iraq. Why?"

"You couldn't wait to finish your contracted time as an army doctor. You couldn't wait to be deployed 'properly', as a soldier rather than a doctor."

"Don't get me wrong, I like being a doctor. But I was young and wanted action. I didn't sign up just to sit around. As a doctor, I worked my way up from a staff member to being in charge of the day shift at the base hospital in Sierra Leone. That was my last stop with the Medical Corps. Then once I was out of Sandhurst and got my commission, they basically gave me an extra first aid pack whenever they sent me somewhere, so that I could patch people up in case something happened, but I wasn't sent out there purely as a medical officer."

"I knew from that very first case you weren't just an army doctor! I bet there aren't that many army doctors who could shoot a man through the heart, through a window, from several hundred yards away, using a handgun. You're a crack shot! In fact, you showed me the medal last night. You're a decorated marksman."

"Yes. You knew that, though. And no, there aren't that many doctors in the army that are as proficient with a gun." John smiled smugly. He seemed to deliberate with himself for a few seconds, before drawing in a deep breath.

"Oh hell, you're going to find out eventually. You've got my file right there, after all… I did honestly sign up to become a doctor. They paid for med school, I wouldn't have been able to afford it otherwise. For a while I thought I'd end up teaching at Bart's and doing research, or working on a British army base somewhere. And I did, for a while. I completed my dissertation at St. Bart's and then I was passed around from base to base; spent half a year in Paderborn, Germany and another six months in Belfast."

Sherlock paid close attention to John, knowing full well that he could just look the information up in the file Mycroft had left him. But he always preferred first-hand information, divulged willingly and freely, if the option existed. Plus, this was John and not some murder suspect. He seemed to vaguely remember a lesson on manners Mummy had insisted on years ago and that one should listen if a friend wanted to talk.

"When I did my short course at Sandhurst as a doctor, they showed me how to fire a gun but we didn't get much training. As medical personnel, we're not meant to engage in fire fights. But it turned out I had a sort of knack for it, if you will. I made up my mind then that once I got out of the RAMC, I wanted to join up as a regular soldier. So I did."

"You showed potential even then, though."

"That I did, yeah. I was a very good army doctor, don't get me wrong. But when I went through the full course at Sandhurst it turned out I was rather good with weapons of any kind. I was one of the best shooters in my class. And in hand-to-hand combat my years on various rugby and wrestling teams did come in handy."

Sherlock scrunched up his face in disgust at the mention of such plebian sports.

"Don't look at me like that. I grew up working class and I am damn proud of that. We didn't have much but we still had fun! I skinned my knees playing football and rugby in the cobbled alley behind our house more often than I care to remember. We can't all grow up shooting clay pigeons and riding unicorns like you probably did", John teased with an easy smile on his face.

Sherlock just let out a huff. "It was normal horses, I have you know", he exclaimed somewhat petulantly. John grinned from ear to ear. "Besides, if there were any to start with, Mycroft probably broke all the unicorns before I came along" the detective deadpanned and John couldn't help but snort at the mental image of a ten year old Mycroft playing Polo while riding a unicorn.

"Anyway. Once I passed out of Sandhurst I was… approached... for lack of a better word. They must have seen my scores because they asked whether I'd want to further my skills. I was young and cocky, of course I said yes. I received sniper training and excelled at it, and eventually my training included reconnaissance as well. To everyone, I was just the former army doctor. People overlooked me, thought of me as unassuming. They thought that as a doctor, I'd be way out of my comfort zone but the truth was I was smack bang in the middle of it. I never felt better. Under the pretense that someone was medical knowledge was needed – and I remained a registered GP after all – I got sent in with recon teams and special ops more and more."

Sherlock studied John for a while and John could feel the verdigris eyes on him without looking at his flat mate.

"Even so, you only killed when you had to. Only when you or your unit were in mortal danger." Having lived with the man for several years and having been protected by him every other week of their acquaintance, Sherlock knew that John would never discharge his weapon without good reason. John had killed a man to protect Sherlock from a murderer after only knowing the detective less than twenty-four hours. He had kept calm and collected and seemingly felt no remorse, but Sherlock knew that killing someone was only ever a last resort for John in order to protect the people he cared about.

John nodded. "Yes, well, I have taken an oath after all. You know? First, do no harm? As long as I could disable the enemy and dispose of the threat that was fine. Plus, capturing them alive gave us the chance to interrogate them. But I saw a lot of things, a lot of blood, a lot of death. I lost good friends. That video last night… it's what most of my nightmares are about. I don't know why though… I've seen and been through so much worse…" John's voice trailed off as he ran a slightly shaky hand through his mousy hair.

The detective noticed this and narrowed his eyes, letting his searching gaze wander all over John and take in his body language. He replayed the video from last night before his mind's eye. His brain immediately started processing all the different sets of data John was emitting. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly when it all fell into place.

"Last night… that video… It wasn't the first time you were held hostage. That's how you kept your men calm; you knew how it could play out. But it didn't happen in Afghanistan, it must have happened in Iraq. And they nearly killed you."

All John could do was nod in confirmation as Sherlock voiced his deductions matter-of-factly. After all, Sherlock, in typical fashion, had hit the nail right on the head. The soldier's shoulders slumped slightly and Sherlock was concerned again. He leaned in closer to his friend, hesitated a second before placing his hand on John's arm.

"John. What did they do to you?"

"We were captured." John spoke calmly but his eyes betrayed the inner turmoil he felt as he looked from Sherlock's hand on his arm up to his friend's face.

"Not even hostages, there were no ransom demands that time. We were prisoners of war, a recon team. A top secret recon team. Nobody knew where we were, nobody would miss us. And most importantly, nobody would come for us. They had us for about five weeks… We were beaten daily. They broke a few of my ribs, snapped my arm in two places. When they got bored, they cut us, just to make us squirm and bleed. You saw some of the scars last night. For days on end, they'd leave us tied to a wall in the blaring sun. The more we fought, the more noise we made, the less food and drink they'd give us. There were seven of us in that team. I was the lowest ranking one, even though I wasn't the youngest. We knew that if we wanted to live, get out of there, then it was down to us. No outside help. We learned pretty quickly to shut up and bide our time, preserving our strength. Eventually, we all started to pretend to be worse off for wear than we actually were. After a while, our captors withdrew some of the guards, thinking that after four weeks in the sun with minimum food and water we wouldn't pose too much of a threat anymore."

Sherlock was listening to every word as John told his story, watching his friend for the signs of distress he'd learned to recognise. He was quietly impressed and surprised that the kind doctor he knew and shared a flat with could possibly be the same man as this remarkable soldier telling his story.

John drew in a slightly shaky breath. "We thought we could wait it out, bide our time until we could overpower one of them by surprise and flee. But something must have spooked them, to this day I don't know what. One day, they dragged us out and lined us all up in that courtyard, tied us to the wall. I was the first one in the line. One of our captors, we'd nicknamed him 'Che Guevara' because of his looks, came over and pointed one of our own Brownings at my head…. And pulled the trigger."

John swallowed hard, closing his eyes and trying to shake the memory away. Sherlock's breath caught.

"I thought that's it. Good night, Vienna. You know?" John laughed nervously while all Sherlock could do was nod.

"I was shuddering when I heard the empty click… He… Guevara just grinned and pulled the trigger again and I froze, but again, it was empty. He then moved on to my friend Tim who stood next to me. Again, he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger twice… They were playing bloody Russian roulette with us! Once we realized, we started counting, knowing that there would be a bullet eventually. We could tell by the look in their eyes they weren't teasing. This was life or death. We knew our guns could hold thirteen 9mm rounds. If they doubled-tapped each of us, that meant the last one out of the seven of us would die there. They still pointed it at all of us but we knew who would die. If they'd started at the other end, it would have been me. Corporal Falcon was begging for his life when the gun was turned on him. He was the last one. But Guevara just grinned and pulled the trigger one last time…" John's voice was trailing off again. He had to concentrate on breathing for a few seconds and Sherlock didn't push him.

"I don't think any shot ever sounded as loud before that day or since. Guevara shot him point blank. He was a good man, had a wife and kids, he was on his second tour out there, a really good guy. They left us there with him for a long time, trying to exhaust us by withholding food and water. One by one we went slack in our bonds, pretending to be weak and exhausted.

When they tried to untie us and take us back to the room they were holding us in, we attacked. Just fought, kicked, bit… whatever damage we could inflict. The captain and I managed to wrestle with our captors and we gained their guns… And then we shot our way out of there. I've never liked having to take a life, but that day I really, really didn't care. Eventually, we made it out of that hellhole and into the nearby hills. From there, it was a fifty mile trek back to base. They looked at us in utter disbelief when we got there. We had been declared Missing in Action and presumed dead, so the six of us dragging ourselves into base with the last of our strength caused quite a stir."

While telling his story, John had subconsciously started to rub his shoulder wound again. Sherlock noticed but didn't comment on it. Instead, he looked John in the eyes.

"You received one of your medals for this." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. I did."

"Well done."

Sherlock wasn't mocking him. On the contrary. John knew it meant so much more than that. It meant 'I know you've been through hell but you made it through' and 'I'm glad that you got out of there'.

"Well, after I had proven myself like that, as it was, I was chosen for more and more ops, on one mission I was even briefly attached to the Commandos. And let me tell you, those green berets are bloody hard-earned. They needed a sniper and a medic at their Forward Operating Base. Being both sniper and trained medic, I was the logical choice, instead of sending two people. I received extra training with them – not the full-blown Commando training because I was there for slightly different reasons – just enough to hold my own with them, but it was still grueling. It also meant I was right on the front line. Had to patch my friends up every day, broken bones, gunshot wounds, shrapnel and explosions – I saw it all. The worst were landmines and IEDs though. When you can see that utter terror in someone's face who had just stepped onto a mine and you know that there is nothing left you can do, no way to save your friend. I lost friends that way."

John barely whispered that last sentence and shook his head to get rid of the images. Sherlock kept watching him, silently deducing god knows what. He could see how affected his friend still was and he had learned long ago that apparently even events that are in the past can still affect a person decades later.

The first time he had questioned this logic, John had told him that his way of looking at it was 'a bit not good' and Sherlock had made a mental note of that. He did occasionally still slip up and sometimes couldn't care less about the feelings he'd hurt in the process. But by now he had a pretty good idea of what John would consider to be a bit not good in his book, so Sherlock kept his mouth shut and didn't question why the deaths of friends that he could not have prevented still troubled him.

John was still exhaling shaky breaths after a minute, keeping his eyes fixed on a scratch mark on the coffee table.

"There is more. One more traumatic experience from Iraq that stands out for you. It happened when you were with your unit, the Fusiliers. It was a routine job, not a special mission. You lost someone. And you blame yourself for their death. Why?"

Sherlock fixed his gaze on John and John could feel the ice blue eyes on him without having to look up at his flat mate.

"Yeah. You're right." He let out another shaky breath before he collected himself enough to look at the detective and hold his gaze.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew that… Probably something about the way I held my tea mug this morning that gave it away" he chuckled and saw Sherlock smirk fleetingly.

"On my second tour there, my unit was on patrol in a tiny local village. It was about lunchtime and there were civilians everywhere. There were women chatting while they sat outside doing the laundry, children playing ball games, a normal village, normal people going about their everyday life. While we were busy checking the houses we passed for threats, an RPM hit the house two doors down from where I was. Next thing I know there is carnage all around us. We all hit the deck upon impact, but from somewhere, someone opened fire on us. But not just us. They were also picking out civilians at random, even the children."

Sherlock watched as John began to fiddle around with his empty mug, looking for a distraction, something to keep his fingers occupied. The detective knew that John cared, especially when children were involved.

"I saw the glimmer of the sniper scope reflected by the sun. So I asked my mate for cover as I set up, training my sights on him. I fired, but whether or not I killed him I don't know. Even in the middle of all that, I felt strangely calm. I knew my unit had my back. After I had shot the sniper, I grabbed the small medical kit I carried everywhere and dashed towards the nearest casualty. I kept moving from one person to another. I'd never really been trained in field medicine and emergency response. I can patch someone up and I had done a stint within the A&E department during rotation, but I usually only got the patients once they reached the hospital, after the medical support officers had done their jobs and provided first aid. But in field medicine, especially on the front lines, you learn quickly that you have to prioritise. The categories I divided all those around me in were Walking Wounded, In Need of Attention, Requires Immediate Treatment and Too Far Gone. It sounds harsh, I know, but in those situations you can't save them all. You focus on those that need medical attention the most."

Sherlock got up and went back to the kitchen, refilling their cups with fresh tea. He could tell that John would appreciate the thought, as a hot drink always seemed to calm him down.

While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, Sherlock addressed John.

"I take it the Walking Wounded are those with scrapes and bruises, maybe a concussion but otherwise unharmed and able to get out of there under their own steam. In Need of Medical Attention, knowing you, would be those with broken bones or similar injuries that needed to be treated but could wait five more minutes." He glanced over his shoulder back towards the couch in the living room where John still sat. Seeing his friend confirm this analysis, he continued. "That would make those requiring immediate treatment those who are losing a lot of blood due to their injuries and those unconscious who cannot tell you the exact amount of pain they are in. And too far gone are those who cannot be saved." He stirred sugar and milk into the brew he had just made and returned to the living room.

"Yes. You're right. As hard as it is, you can't waste time or resources on the ones you know are not going to make it. You can give them something for the pain, if you can spare it, so they don't have to suffer in their final moments, but you know that whatever you do, they won't make it to the hospital alive. To be honest, I'm still surprised that I got rescued in Afghanistan… If there had been another medic there, they might have left me…" the doctor trailed off as he grabbed the mug Sherlock was holding out for him and blew a breath over the top to make the brew cool down a bit before taking a sip.

"There was this little girl. She can't have been older than eight. Beautiful little girl. She had been standing close to where the RPM had struck the building. The girl… She had a massive hole in her chest, debris had hit her hard, you could see her ribs and bits of rock embedded between them. But she was still breathing raggedly. Her mother saw my medical kit and kept shouting at me to do something, anything, and pointed at her daughter. I knew she wanted me to help, even if I didn't speak her language. I didn't even have pain medication left to give her. We were miles away from help and she was loosing too much blood. So I held the girl's hand as she took her last breath, it's all I could do. Her mother screamed and cried and yelled at me, pounded her fists into my chest as she sat their and mourned her little daughter. I can still see the girl's eyes. They were almost turquoise, a real rarity out there…"

John shuddered and blinked away tears. Sherlock wasn't as oblivious to the emotional response he had just triggered in John as other might like to think him to be. He knew John cared about all his patients and that it hit him hard when he couldn't save someone or had to diagnose a terminal disease. So for him to have lost a child, a completely innocent life, under such horrific circumstances, was weighing heavy on his friend's conscience. Sherlock grabbed John's file and pulled it towards him.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't know. You don't have to say anything more about it. But with your permission, I'd like to read your file."

"Go ahead… I'm surprised it took you so long to figure half this stuff out anyway. And thanks, by the way… I'll just…go and get myself cleaned up a bit" the soldier quickly added and stood up, heading past the kitchen and into the bathroom where he locked himself in. Sherlock could hear the old pipes groaning as John turned on the water to splash his face.

It took John several minutes and several splashes of cold water to his face to calm down and get his emotions under control again. He had not thought about the girl in ages and that made him ashamed.

When he finally returned to reclaim his seat on the couch, Sherlock was engrossed in his records.

Sherlock read about John's placements while still at university and during his residency. Saw a list of all the places in the world John had been as a doctor and as a soldier. He was impressed by his friend's scores, the proficiency he'd demonstrated during his sniper training was impressive but not entirely surprising. John had been attached to and working with several highly prestigious and well-known regiments, first as part of the Royal Army Medical Corps and later during special operations before he was permanently attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

He'd received basic training as a parachutist during his brief stint with the Commandos. He had also been trained in reconnaissance and retrieval, his file showed his skills as a fighter, both with a firearm and in hand-to-hand combat. It listed all of his medals, showed how quickly he rose through the ranks once he'd been commissioned as a soldier.

Sherlock flipped through the thick file, skim-reading over John's career. Several photographs of John at various stages of his career were attached to it as well. Sherlock took in every detail and committed it to memory as he had never seen his friend in uniform. There was one of a much younger John in a beige shirt, dark trousers, a wide maroon, navy and yellow belt with a massive round buckle and a stethoscope slung around his shoulders. Another one showed John in desert combat dress, while yet another picture showed him in No. 2 dress uniform, the three stars on his epaulettes that marked his rank as Captain clearly visible and the cap badge of his beret exactly one and a half inched above his eyebrow.

But one section made him stop and read in earnest. He read and re-read one page, looked up to John and then back to the file.

"It says here you were listed as Missing in Action twice", Sherlock stated and looked at John, his eyes wide in wonder. "Yeah, I know. They once erroneously listed me as Killed in Action as well… but that was a bloke named Jeffrey Hugh Watson. Took me a while to clarify that I am a different J.H. Watson and not actually dead" he chuckled.

"I had no idea, John. I mean, of course I knew about Afghanistan, and given your age and rank it was unlikely that it was the only place you saw action. I know you're a crack shot, I've seen you shoot and I've seen you kill the cabbie to save my life. During the last few years I've watched you fight with suspects and gain the upper hand even when they had a good foot or more on you in height. You've patched and stitched me up enough times for me to know you're an excellent doctor, there is a reason after all, why you are listed as my emergency contact rather than my own brother. But this? I don't think that 'Army Doctor' is even beginning to cover it!"

John actually had to laugh. All of what Sherlock had said was true. As he settled back on the couch, he crossed his legs and grabbed the mug of tea, gulping some of it down and reveling in the warmth before he looked back up at Sherlock, smug grin on his face and a spark in his eyes.

"Well, you're the one who insisted on calling me army doctor, remember? I was in the army and I am a doctor, so you jumped to the conclusion. And I had been an army doctor, once upon a time. But you were on a roll and then we had our first case and I just never saw the need to correct you. I sometimes miss being a soldier. You don't spend so many years on active duty if you don't like it, believe me. But once I was shot, that was it; can't have a cripple blundering around the front lines. Now I'm just plain Doctor Watson, dealing with sciatica and the common cold. But yeah, initially, you got it wrong." He grinned and took another sip of his tea.

"Did not."

"Did too."

John just kept grinning as Sherlock pouted. "I admit I did not have all the facts back then, but it was an accurate description based on the clues you displayed. And it turns out that army doctor was your title after all, so I stand by my deduction", he huffed with the slightest air of superiority.

"You just tell yourself that."

"But you are wrong as well, John. There's nothing plain about you. This whole file is proof. You've still got all your skills and your tremor is barely noticeable these days." Sherlock took a sip of the rapidly cooling tea he'd completely neglected until then.

"You're welcome, by the way."

John did a double-take. "Beg your pardon?"

"You live for the thrill of the chase, the danger. You were a soldier, you need the adrenaline. Good thing then that I require an assistant…" John cleared his throat noisily "…fine, 'partner', who knows how to get out of tricky situations and can patch me up, too."

"Gee, thanks Sherlock. So you're basically saying that all my military training was just so I could survive living with you?" he asked with raised eyebrows and a mischievous grin on his face.

"Well, no, of course you didn't receive your training just to deal with me. I think that's even beyond Mycroft's abilities." He shrugged his shoulders. "Then again…" he trailed off and shrugged his shoulders again, grinning back at John.

"But you and I, we both need the adrenaline. Admit it, you love solving cases. And you still get to be a doctor and you still carry your gun. What more could you want? Therefore I'll say it again: you're welcome." Sherlock smiled at his friend, a rare, genuine smile, which John returned although the doctor still shook his head.

John had to confess that his military training and medical expertise were definite advantages when it came to dealing with the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, I need you to understand though, that my military records are highly confidential. The story about Afghanistan is out in the open now, but I'd prefer if nobody else knew what I did, what I've been through and what I'm capable of."

"Of course, John, don't be an idiot. Why would I possibly feel the need to divulge that information?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe because I know you? You won't consciously say anything, but knowing you, you could blurt it out when you're deducing something or you'll mention it at the Yard for some one-uppance over Lestrade or Anderson."

Sherlock actually had the decency to look mildly offended at this, but quickly controlled his facial expression again into a more petulant one.

"John, my brother assured you that I have the relevant security clearance to read your file. Given how high your own clearance is, you should know that this requires the ability to keep secrets. Besides, as my only friend, you should know I'm not the gossiping type. The only one who keeps forcing me to talk about trivial things is you."

This was something John couldn't argue. Sherlock never gossiped. He deduced and spoke whatever came to mind regardless of his audience, which sometimes came close to gossiping, but he never intentionally said anything behind someone's back. And if Sherlock was cleared to read John's highly classified file, then Sherlock himself had to have at least the same security level as John, if not slightly higher given that his older brother basically runs the British government.

13


	10. Chapter 10: On The Town

On The Town

Mycroft Holmes had to admit it. Reading John Watson's service record, he was more than a bit surprised. There was much more to the good doctor than he himself had been able to deduce. And once again Mycroft found himself thankful that such a capable man was looking after Sherlock's wellbeing.

His little brother had become easier to deal with, had kicked his addiction, actually helped the police and finally had a friend and moral compass he so desperately needed. And if said moral compass came with military training and a first aid kit, even better.

A quick press of a button, and Anthea appeared in the doorway to his office.

"Sir?"

"Ah, there you are, Anthea. Please make sure that we send a car to Baker Street at 7pm, to pick up Mrs. Hudson, Doctor Watson and my brother. And also transfer the usual amount to my brother's bank account, it's for a good cause, after all. Also, I want the surveillance team outside 221b to keep the press at bay as long as it takes. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. I'll get right onto it, sir."

With that, his assistant excused herself again and returned her attention to the BlackBerry in her hand. As the doors closed, Mycroft settled back into his leather chair and with the press of another button, started a video conference. He leaned back, crossed his legs and placed his interlaced fingers on his chest.

"…So, gentlemen. I think it's time for a rethink about how our returning war heroes like Captain Watson should be treated. Don't you?"

"John! Come on, get dressed! We've got dinner reservations!"

Sherlock's voice was somewhat muffled by the fact that he was in the bathroom while John was upstairs in his room.

"Yeah, alright. Calm down. Why do I need to change to go to Angelo's?"

"We're not going to Angelo's, John. We're celebrating. It's a nice restaurant so put on a suit! And we'll need to get Mrs. Hudson."

John looked down at himself. Checkered shirt and jeans. Apparently that wouldn't do. Sighing, he went back to his wardrobe and pulled out a suit. It was graphite in colour, a three piece suit. He'd not had much occasion to wear it but he thought under the circumstances, it would do.

He fished out a white shirt and his dark blue regimental tie of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier. He fastened the tie and pulled out the silver RAMC cufflinks with the staff of Asclepius his father had gotten him as a present when he'd received his first commission in the Royal Army Medical Corps. He checked his reflection again and headed downstairs to the bathroom to fix his hair, casually closing the buttons on his suit jacket as he descended the stairs.

Sherlock had disappeared into his own bedroom and John thought that he should really get his hair trimmed back to crew cut as he stood in front of the mirror trying to reign in his slightly unruly hair.

Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, he stepped back out and waited for his flat mate in the living room.

Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, wearing a black suit and light blue shirt. Although the detective usually wore tailored suits, even when it wasn't for a special occasion, John was still a bit envious of how effortless Sherlock made it all look, while he himself was still fumbling with this hair.

"Ah, you heard me after all." Sherlock said as he approached the living room and John. "Excellent, that suit looks much better than your hideous jumper. Now, let's go and get Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said and crossed the threshold to bounce down the seventeen steps before John had a chance to retort and defend his choice of comfortable clothing.

Their landlady was already waiting for them, dressed in her Sunday Best. She opened the door the second John knocked.

"Oh, look at you my lovelies! Don't you look dashing!" she said and straightened John's tie for him.

"Aw, thank you Mrs. Hudson. You look lovely" John responded.

"Oh, thank you, dear. I wasn't sure what to wear, Sherlock was all mysterious."

"You look fine, Mrs. Hudson" the detective agreed although he wasn't even looking. As Mrs. Hudson was locking her door, John turned around and said "Sherlock, don't you think you could get us a taxi? Seeing as one always magically appears just when you need it?"

"No need" Sherlock said and grinned at the two of them. "My brother sent a car." He opened the front door with a flourish and revealed a black town car.

Sherlock held the door for Mrs. Hudson and climbed in after John and their landlady. Mrs. Hudson spent the entire ride fussing about her outfit and the boys' suits, while John still had no idea where exactly they were headed.

Allowing for London evening traffic, they found themselves near Hyde Park corner thirty minutes later. John helped Mrs. Hudson out of the car and looked up in disbelief.

"Galvin at Windows? We're celebrating at Galvin at Windows? How?" John was incredulous.

"Mycroft went to university with the owner" Sherlock shrugged.

"And you got the table just like that? When I graduated university, my dad wanted to take us here but they were fully booked months in advance!"

"Well, I believe Mycroft had a favour to call in. Now, shall we?" Sherlock said and swooped over to the door, while John offered Mrs. Hudson his arm and accompanied her inside.

Sherlock had not only secured a table, but a window table with the most spectacular view across London in the evening sun. As soon as they stepped into the restaurant, Mrs. Hudson was praising the view of the Thames and the London Eye and how London really was pretty from above.

Sherlock held her chair for her as she sat down, both men deliberately giving her the chair at the head of the table so she could enjoy the view. John looked around wide-eyed. The 1930's interior, floor-to-ceiling windows, classy bar – he felt a little out of place until he remembered that he was wearing a suit and opened his button to sit down.

Within seconds, a waiter appeared at their side.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. So good to see you again."

"Good evening, Maurice. Excellent table, thank you. We've got something to celebrate tonight, so I think we'll start with sherry as aperitifs and then a bottle of your best Cabernet Sauvignon for the table." Sherlock looked around for confirmation from John and Mrs. Hudson who both nodded in agreement.

"Excellent choice, sir" Maurice said and retreated to get the sherry.

They sipped their aperitifs in silence, contemplating the menu. Both John and Mrs. Hudson looked worried when they saw the prices. Sherlock studied them with a slightly insulted look on his face.

"Oh stop being ridiculous. I am inviting you both out for dinner and you can choose whatever you like. Don't even think about going for the cheapest item, John, I know you are not particularly fond of Caesar Salad. We're here to celebrate and both of you can order what you want. I insist, Mrs. Hudson. Starter, main, dessert, coffee, tea… it's on me."

"Oh Sherlock dear, that's very nice of you… but…" Mrs. Hudson began but was cut off. "Mrs. Hudson, believe me, it's all taken care of. Our latest client just paid. And if you don't believe that, then see this as my treat for the acid burn in the kitchen floorboard…" he smirked.

"Acid burn?" Mrs. Hudson shrieked and John chuckled. The stain had actually been there for two months now but it had been cleverly covered up by moving the rug two inches to the left.

"Ah, look. Our wine is here" Sherlock smoothly changed the subject. Once Sherlock had tested and approved of the wine and they all had their glasses filled, Sherlock raised his glass.

"A toast!" Both John and Mrs. Hudson raised their glasses.

"To Captain John Watson, who is not only a war hero and one of the bravest men I know, but also the recipient of both, the Military Cross for which he will receive one bar and the Victoria Cross for his actions in Afghanistan!"

John felt himself blush but approved of the toast. "To John!" Sherlock repeated and Mrs. Hudson joined in. John clinked glasses with both of them before taking a sip.

"Uh…er.. thank you, Sherlock. That was… a bit more moving than I expected" John confessed.

"Oh John my dear boy, I'm so proud of you!" their landlady said and hugged him with tears in her eyes.

"Well, I mean it, John. I called you a war hero during that first taxi ride to Lauriston Gardens and I had no idea of your service record back then, nor did I know the exact definition of the word. But I've seen you in action, chasing criminals and caring for your patients and you deserve the awards that are about to be bestowed upon you."

"Wow. Thanks, Sherlock." Sherlock just grinned.

"But then again you put up with me and you're still my flat mate, so there's a slight chance you might actually be insane." Both John and Mrs. Hudson laughed and their landlady patted Sherlock's arm.

"Yeah, maybe, but at least I don't run after villains by myself and unarmed!"

"No, but you invaded Iraq and Afghanistan."

"I think we've established that that wasn't just me, though."

"Well, I don't go running after criminals by myself either!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"You don't?" John sounded surprised.

"No! You're usually right next to me!"

"Fair point" John conceded, and raised his glass in a silent salute again, before both men succumbed to their giggles.

They ate their starters and watched the sun slowly set while chatting about this and that. Before the main course was served, of which even Sherlock had ordered some, the manager of the restaurant approached the table.

"Sherlock! When I saw the reservation for Holmes I assumed it was Mycroft. How are you?" he shook Sherlock's hand and turned towards Mrs. Hudson. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

Then he turned to John and stared at John's tie and the cufflinks and then back at John's face, before saluting him.

John, feeling a little awkward about the situation and not wanting to cause a fuss, got up and returned the salute. Half the diners had noticed this little exchange and were now staring at John.

"Sir, I had no idea you were here tonight or I would have introduced myself sooner. Gerard Galvin, owner of this restaurant and formerly Corporal in the Duke of Lancaster's. I read about you in the paper, you're Captain John Watson. It's an honour to meet you, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Galvin." John said as he took his seat again.

"My son is currently out there, serving with the Queen's Dragoons. He's been patched up by RAMC doctors a few times now. And let me tell you, I appreciate everything you guys do. Is it true you were actually a combatant as well?"

"Yes. I left the RAMC to fight for my country."

"When I was serving, there was this medical support officer who kept dashing out to patch us up, even under fire. And you did both! You must be crazier than a Commando, and they do some crazy things! You have my utmost respect, sir."

John chuckled. "Thank you Mr. Galvin. And I'm sure your son is in good hands." Mr. Galvin excused himself after that and Mrs. Hudson patted john on the back.

Throughout the evening, fellow diners who had witnessed the meeting of the two former soldiers or who recognised John from the article, came up to the table to congratulate him and show their respect. Mrs. Hudson noted with a pleased smile that not just men from her own generation, but young, business-type men who looked to be even younger than Sherlock, came up to speak to John.

While this made John uncomfortable, Sherlock just sat back, grinned and then proceeded to spout out deductions about everyone who approached, much to John's and Mrs. Hudson's amusement.

After dessert and coffee, Maurice brought over three glasses of whisky for the table and Mr. Galvin reappeared and presented John with a bottle of Laphroaig Single Malt Scotch.

"On the house, from the entire staff here at Windows" he declared, as John tried to decline. "I insist, Captain Watson. Please take this as a small token of our gratitude for your services and to celebrate your achievements and decorations. It's not every day we have a recipient of the Victoria Cross dining with us."

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Galvin. You served yourself, I did what I had to do. I'm sure you understand. But thank you for this" John slightly shook the bottle of expensive whisky. "I really appreciate it!"

They saluted one another again and John turned to offer Mrs. Hudson his arm and accompany her outside. He had not even realized that Sherlock had left, presumably to settle the bill. John was busy trying to hail a cab when Sherlock stepped out of the building and another black town car magically appeared at the curb.

Arriving back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson hugged both her boys and thanked them for a lovely evening. Upstairs, John put the whisky aside and immediately went to the kitchen to fix them both some tea without even thinking about it.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That was actually really nice of you. And you invited Mrs. Hudson, she was thrilled. What brought all this on, though?" John asked as he handed the detective his cup and finally shrugged off his suit jacket, loosening the tie and vest.

"I've been told that you might want to eat something other than dim sum or Italian sometimes. And that maybe I should sometimes show you that I truly do appreciate your friendship. And because there was a genuine reason to celebrate your extraordinary achievements, I thought that Angelo's wouldn't quite do in this case."

"Uhm… right. Well, that was very thoughtful. Thank you. I had a great time and I've always wanted to go to Galvin at Windows. But you don't have to go out of your way for me, Sherlock, you should know that by now. Believe me, I would have complained or left long ago if I was inclined to take offense at the ordering the same take-out or going to the same restaurant over and over again. But I really appreciate the thought behind this, so thank you, again."

"Don't mention it." Sherlock waved it off like it was nothing but he was secretly pleased that John had liked it. He'd never put much effort into maintaining friendships or acquaintances, most people left after a few weeks at the latest, so he was glad that he could add this to his mental list of things he'd done right.

"Right. I think I'm gonna hit the sack once I finish my tea." They sat together in silence while both finished their drinks. Eventually, John got up and stretched before taking the mugs through to the kitchen. He brushed his teeth and shouted "Night, Sherlock" into the main apartment before retreating up the stairs to his room.

Even though Sherlock got changed too, he wandered back into the living room once he heard John's door close. John had been calm and rather collected today but retelling his entire military career and being approached repeatedly by strangers about his front page news story, would no doubt cause his nightmares to resurface.

So Sherlock filled the kettle, got the mugs ready, picked up his violin and started to play.

8


	11. Chapter 11: Suits And Nightclubs

Suits And Nightclubs

John could hear screams. He heard sniper fire and the deafening boom of an RPG hitting home closely nearby. He's surrounded by yellowish dust that makes it hard to breathe and he can't see a damn thing.

He can feel the heat of the sun and a trickle of blood flowing down his side. There are more screams from somewhere and someone is calling for help.

John grabs the first aid kit and runs towards the screams. He can't see where he is going, just knows he has to make it there. He can make out some words now, but can't tell whether a man yells "Get down" or "Man down." He assumes it's the latter and pushes on.

The yellow haze lifts a bit and is replaced by blood red sand. Not just blood red, but blood stained. Gunshots continue to crackle around him, he can catch a glimpse of a muzzle flash. Without conscious thought, he's trained his sniper rifle in the direction in which he saw the muzzle flash and fires. Bullets hit the ground around him, kick up dirt that pelts into his skin like needle pricks. He keeps shooting until there is no return fire.

More screams and dead eyes of comrades and blood everywhere. And then there is a little girl, half her chest missing but still alive with eyes so full of pain, pleadingly silently for help. Another warhead hits, there's another boom, blackness, eyes and a blood-curling scream.

John sat bolt upright, heart pounding loud in his chest, breathing way too rapidly, covered in sweat and with a sore throat. He slumped back down into the mattress, shaking all over. The scream that woke him up had been torn from his own mouth.

While trying to will his heart to stop jumping out of his chest, John listened out for any noises coming from the flat below. As he reached over to the bedside table to flick on the lamp, his eyes fell on the small pill and glass of water that had definitely not been there when he'd gone to bed.

So Sherlock knew. There was no way he hadn't heard the scream and deduced where it came from if it'd been loud enough to wake John up.

John swallowed the sleeping aid and sat up on the side of his bed. He knew this spiel. Even with help, he wouldn't fall asleep again for a while. As his breathing slowed down again, he could hear a soft melody being played on the violin. So Sherlock had definitely heard.

There was nothing for it. He would need a cup of tea anyway – tea always made everything better in his eyes and it was a very British thing to do, after all – so he might as well go downstairs and face the music, as it were.

John got up and put on his dressing gown, pulled it tightly around himself and made his way downstairs into the living room. He was still shaking and his limp was more painful and noticeable than it had been in months.

It was 2.37am when Sherlock heard the screams. He stilled and listened, hearing John thrash around in his bed, trapped in another nightmare he couldn't shake.

Shortly after John had gone to bed, Sherlock had placed the sleeping pill and glass of water on John's bedside table, like he always did when he thought it would be a nightmare night. He mused to himself how the situation was almost laughable if it wasn't so serious. On his own danger nights, John tried his best to keep Sherlock as far away from drugs as possible, even confiscating the aspirin pack. Yet on nightmare nights, Sherlock was the one providing John with the chemicals needed to calm his mind.

The last of John's screams nearly froze Sherlock in place. He'd heard, seen and helped John through a lot of these nightmares since they became flat mates, but this scream was so full of pain and desperation, it made Sherlock's hairs stand on end.

When he heard John move about his room, footsteps noticeable on the old wooden floorboards, Sherlock put the kettle on and returned to the violin. He could hear John's uneven footsteps on the stairs, and flinched slightly at how noticeable the limp had become. He had nearly forgotten all about it.

Without saying a word, John entered the living room and sat down on the couch. Sherlock played a few more notes, pretending not to have noticed John's entrance so the soldier had time to collect himself. Sherlock carefully placed his Stradivarius back in its case before retreating to the kitchen to finish making tea. John watched him, as he put the instrument down, looking at it almost reverently. Of course John knew that the violin was Sherlock's prized possession, but he had no idea it was actually one of the Stradivari. Sherlock's grandfather had left him the instrument, known as Provigny and dating back to 1716, in his will after Sherlock had proven his aptitude at playing the violin. Next to his microscope, it was the only thing Sherlock had returned to his childhood home for, the only thing he'd actually wanted from his former life, once he'd kicked his addiction.

Once the kettle had boiled and he'd added the required amounts of milk and sugar to both mugs, Sherlock returned to the living room and handed one of the mugs to John who accepted it without so much as looking up. The former soldier just kept staring down into the milky beverage, letting it cool down a bit before taking a sip.

"You didn't dream about getting shot." Sherlock's voice was calm and low, stating a fact, nothing more.

"No. It was… the girl I told you about."

"Ah." Sherlock acknowledged and blew on his tea, watching the ripples dance across the surface.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"Wasn't asleep."

"Oh, good. Ok." John cleared his throat and ran a hand through his blond hair before lifting his mug again for another sip of his brew.

"I thought it wouldn't be so bad, after yesterday… But I was wrong. It was a different nightmare, one I haven't had in a long time…." He looked up at Sherlock who'd sat himself down on the coffee table to give John space to stretch out on the couch.

"I'll just sit here for a while if you don't mind." Instead of a reply, Sherlock opened his violin case again and began to play. He deliberately played several tranquil pieces, some of them his own compositions, but John couldn't tell. He just sat there, on the couch, slumped back and with tired eyes, clasping his mug and trying his hardest not to fall asleep yet so the images wouldn't return.

It was close to 5am when Sherlock finally heard John's breathing even out, intercepted every now and then by a light snore. He out the violin away again, grabbed the old throw that John kept over the back of his armchair, covered John with it and then went into his own bedroom to grab and hour of sleep himself.

Two hours later, Sherlock heard John shuffle through the flat and into the bathroom, then upstairs and back down again to the kitchen. He could hear John going through his usual breakfast routine and decided to join him in their kitchen for a coffee. When John left for work, Sherlock thought that his flat mate still looked a bit haunted, but not as defeated as the night before.

Mycroft's men were really doing a good job keeping the reporters away from 221b Baker Street, but some did manage to approach john after all. He waved them off, explaining he'd be late for work and that all he had to say was on his blog and in the official statement released by the Ministry of Defense.

Most of John's colleagues had read the weekend papers of course, and were surprised when he came into the GP surgery to start his shift. They had fully expected him to call in and not come in that day, at least until the attention died down a bit.

"Wasn't expecting to see you, John", Jane the receptionist greeted him.

"Why not? I haven't mixed up my days, have I?" John was momentarily confused. He was sure he'd written today down as one of his shifts.

"No, no, I meant because of, you know, you being in the paper and all. Thought you might not come in today after that, that's all."

"Why wouldn't I? It's my shift and you'd be a doctor down. Besides, that story doesn't change who I am or what I do for a living. Might as well continue as usual," John shot her a quick grin and then leaned in a bit.

"Listen, the media might try to get hold of me here, so please try and keep them away? I'd appreciate it."

"Of course, doc. No worries. And congratulations, John."

"Thanks Jane. Right then, who's my first patient?"

Keeping the press away from the surgery worked well for an hour or two, until they'd caught on that no calls would be patched through to Doctor Watson today. A few journalists actually came down there in person, having called early and made an appointment just in case. Even though Jane did a good job to weed them out, two reporters still ended up in John's examination room, bombarding him with questions, notepads and dictaphones at the ready.

Getting slightly more agitated by the minute, John threw them out of the surgery with no uncertain words as to what would happen should they try again.

"Bloody press, aye?" one of the other doctors commented and smiled at him sympathetically.

"Yeah… they're blowing it all out of proportion. I did my job, end of."

"But they are giving you the Victoria Cross?"

"Yeah."

"You might have done your job, John, but under those circumstances? Were you really held prisoner?"

"What circumstances, Beatrice?" John asked. "I was a soldier. All that came with the job description. And yes, I was, but as you can see, I made it out of there. If you don't mind, I really don't want to talk about this right now with anyone." John let the door at the surgery slam shut as he retreated into his examination room.

By the time John returned to Baker Street, he felt drained. The little sleep he'd had didn't do him any good and people asking him about Afghanistan, even though they meant well and were only curious, brought all the images back up that john was trying his hardest to forget, at least during his waking hours.

He hadn't been back home for even half an hour, just long enough to sit down in his armchair with a cold bottle of the beer he'd bought the day before, before there was a knock on the door downstairs. Neither he nor Sherlock much cared about getting up and opening the door, so the two men just sat there and waited for their kind landlady to take pity on whoever was outside the flat, to let them in and into 221b.

It wasn't long before they could hear Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on the stairs, followed by another, heavier set of feet.

"Oh hello, boys. I wasn't sure whether you'd be in. This gentleman is here to see you, John" she said by way of greeting and stepped aside to reveal a slender, older man who was perfectly dressed.

Sherlock looked at him and made his deductions in milliseconds. The older gentleman wore a suit that was clearly tailored yet functional, and carried a small case.

"You're the tailor Mycroft hired for John's uniform. You've worked in fashion all your life, your fingertips are covered in tiny pricks made by safety pins and various other needles. Your suit is clearly one of your own works, but it's functional. You have to be able to wear it comfortably all day, including crouching and bending down to adjust various fabrics and measurements. The sleeve of your suit jacket has a slight crease on the left wrist, indicating where you usually wear a pin cushion around it so you can work faster. You're proud of your profession and the quality of your work. Even though you've been in the shop all day, your trousers still look freshly creased at the front, as if they'd only just been ironed into shape. Your entire attire is bespoke, suggesting you work on Savile Row and cater to an equally bespoke clientele and have done so for a long time." As Sherlock drew in a breath he turned towards his friend.

"John, you might want to get up and not keep this gentleman waiting."

John looked up at the older man, who nodded first at him, then at Sherlock and set his case down on the coffee table. He opened it to reveal tape measures and safety pins and pin cushions of all sizes. John sighed an got up.

"Right then. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

"As you wish, sir. I will just be taking your measurements; Mr. Holmes has ordered a Number 1 dress uniform for you. You will only be required to attend one fitting in about a week's time, just to make sure it fits you exactly", the tailor assured him and was already measuring his arms.

John had never had a suit tailored to his specifications before, and found the whole measuring process slightly awkward. Until now, all suits he's ever owned had been straight off the rack, and his Number 2 uniform had been second hand as he couldn't afford a new one at the time.

Luckily, the man knew what he was doing. He kept quiet and worked quickly, disrupting John as little as possible.

"I will let Mr. Holmes know once you are required for the fitting. It should not take too long on the day, we will just make sure that all measurements are correct and the uniform will be a comfortable fit for you. And congratulations, sir."

"Thank you. It's no trouble, I appreciate this" John assured him, before the older man packed his case and left again.

While John had his measurements taken, Sherlock had ordered curry, which arrived just minutes after the tailor had left. John hadn't even realized how hungry he was until he could smell the tikka masala and naan bread and his stomach protested loudly at still being empty.

As John sunk back into his armchair, happy with a fresh beer and full of Indian food, he was glad the day was almost over. He didn't say a word, but Sherlock could tell at a glance just how much it had all taken out of him, being reminded time and time again about his time and imprisonment in Afghanistan.

So when Lestrade called two days and two nightmare nights later with a fresh case, both Sherlock and John were glad for the distraction and shift of focus.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan were already at the crime scene in Hammersmith when John and Sherlock climbed out of their cab.

A man had been found bludgeoned to death with a very blunt object. He was the third person to be killed that way in the last three weeks and all victims had been found in dumpsters in seedy alleyways. Lestrade and his team were desperate to catch the person quickly turning out to be a serial killer.

John stood back behind the crime scene tape while Sherlock went off to look at the body from all angles and actually hissed at Anderson when the forensic specialist came too close.

Once the body had been lifted out of the dumpster, Sherlock jumped in, which surprised even Lestrade who wrinkled his nose. While Sherlock was busy examining the dumpster and educing away, John took a closer look at the body.

The man's face was completely smashed in with the remnants of a wide-framed pair of glasses visible in the wound and John wondered whether dental records could be used at all to identify this man. Whatever had been used to kill him, at had been crude but it had definitely done the job.

John crouched down next to the victim and took a pair of disposable gloves one of the crime scene technicians offered him. The man's hair was brown and hair gel made it look like wet spikes, while his badly-trimmed stubble was caked in blood. The victim couldn't have been dead long, John realized, as rigor mortis had not yet started to set in.

The faint outline of a club stamp was still visible on the back of the victim's hand and even though the alley reeked of rubbish, puke and urine, John could still detect the lingering scent of alcohol and body odor that surrounded the body.

"Male, Caucasian, mid to late 20's, can't be dead more than two to three hours. My estimate is that the blunt force trauma to the head killed him but that will have to be confirmed by the coroner. I can smell alcohol on the victim and there's the outline of a nightclub stamp visible on his hand" John said to nobody in particular, but he was sure that Sherlock had heard him and that Lestrade had also been paying attention.

"Hm, Lestrade, did the other victims have nightclub stamps too?" Sherlock asked as he climbed out of the dumpster empty-handed.

The DI thumbed through his notepad.

"Er… yes. Not from the same club, though", Lestrade confirmed once he'd found the right page of his notes.

"As I thought. I think you'll find that all the victims knew each other", Sherlock said as he walked over to take a closer look at the body.

"They all had nightclub stamps, had their heads bashed in and they were found in dumpsters behind nightclubs they hadn't been in. That's not coincidence. They must all have known each other and their killer."

Lestrade just looked at him with equal amounts of confusion and awe. "Ok. But how?"

"Come on, Detective Inspector. Think! Men murdered in nightclubs or rather dumped, literally dumped, just behind clubs. The most likely scenarios are prostitutes or drugs. Look at his clothes. Cheap suit, bad fit, it's off the racks from Matalan. The shirt has stains on it and it's not even ironed, the jacket is at least one size to small for him, as are the trousers. They are way too tight around his waist to fit him properly. The tie doesn't match anything he's wearing and his shoes are at least two years old, there are holes in the soles. This is a pretty high end club. Just like the one he visited, according to the stamp on his hand. If he'd had girls inside, they wouldn't be taking an average Joe back to a room somewhere. No, this would be high-class clientele, or better off, at least. A pimp would look his part in there. Designer clothes, nothing too flashy, maybe even a bit understated but definitely expensive taste that would be obvious to anyone looking his way. Drug bosses would be the same. You'll find that all the victims were small time drug dealers trying to get a cut. Maybe they stepped on somebody's toes to get themselves noticed and killed…" Sherlock trailed off while looking at the body.

John stood back to give Sherlock some space.

"So, drugs. Are you sure?" he asked.

"It's the logical conclusion. And the most likely reason to get killed in a nightclub. I doubt this victim was in a relationship, as the partner would probably have pointed out that none of his clothes fit or match and that he still had baked beans sauce around the edges of his mouth. He was clearly vain or he wouldn't have put the product in his hair, but not vain enough to care about the rest of his appearance or the body odor he was emitting, even though he was probably meeting business contacts. Once you look into his background and relations, I'd be surprised to find a girlfriend somewhere. The lack of personal hygiene and the unkempt attempt of a beard, let alone his complete disregard for the state of his clothes would have probably driven her off. I'd put money on the fact that he was thought of as gay more often than straight."

"Brilliant" John smiled.

Lestrade was busy taking down notes of Sherlock's ramblings and reminded himself yet again to invest in a Dictaphone to record Sherlock instead. It would make his life that much easier.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had started to pace up and down the alley, murmuring deductions under his breath and running possibilities through his head.

At the far end of the alley, just where Sherlock was, a metal fire exit door suddenly opened and a young man stepped out carrying two black bin bags and whistling a random melody. He looked up when he noticed Sherlock, then looked down the alley towards Lestrade, the flashing blue lights on the police cars and the crime scene tape. For a second, he and Sherlock were frozen in place, looking at each other.

Then the young man bolted.

He took off with Sherlock immediately on his heels. A second later, John was also in motion, darting down the alley, leaving Lestrade and his team slightly dumbfounded and scrambling into action behind him. Moments later, the DI caught on and gave chase.

"Oi! Police! Freeze!" he shouted but the man, Sherlock and John had long since rounded the corner and were out of sight. When the Detective Inspector finally caught up with them, the man had hurled the rubbish bags at Sherlock and John and the contents of said bags were scattered across the floor.

The guy was now brandishing a pen knife and kept stabbing the air in front of the consulting detective and the army doctor in an attempt to keep them away.

Sherlock heard Lestrade's approaching footsteps and used the temporary distraction to try and disarm the man. He leapt forward but slightly miscalculated and the man lashed out, his pen knife slicing and stabbing at Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, his shirt torn and an angry red gash visible on the pale skin underneath, quickly turning his crisp white shirt crimson red. Even though Sherlock kept fighting, he now shielded himself a bit more, not at all keen to let his attacker continue to slice and dice.

With years of training in various forms of martial arts and the odd defense course he's participated, Sherlock was able to put up a very good fight, keeping the man at bay and the knife away from him. Eventually, though, the man managed to push Sherlock roughly into the wall, which knocked the air out of the consulting detective's lungs.

Just as Sherlock hit the wall and the young man got ready for another attack, John Watson surprised everyone by stepping in and pulling the man away from his friend. All the police officers kept to the sidelines, watching it all play out.

Much quicker than all of them thought possible, the doctor crouched down and ducked the blows and the knife as the man turned on John, face red with fury. Within seconds, John managed to get a grip on the guy's arm and twisted it back painfully, elbowing the man's solar plexus until he relinquished his hold on the weapon. As soon as John saw it fall and heard clatter on the asphalt floor, he kicked the weapon out of reach. With both of them unarmed, the fight had just gotten fairer.

The two of them engaged in a vicious fight, bare knuckles and no holds barred. Again, John proved light on his feet and quick like a fox as he ducked and dealt blow after blow. Both of them were grunting in pain, and John was sure his ribs would protest his involvement in this fight for a while.

Eventually, John managed to get a grip on his opponent's jacket sleeve and front buttons. Lestrade and the others had their weapons raised but didn't dare intervene because the two of them moved so quickly that especially the DI feared that he'd hit the wrong guy.

Once John had his hands on his opponent, the doctor hooked his right leg behind the other man's and swept his foot across with speed and force, literally sweeping the other guy off his feet. Although John kept his grip on the man's clothing, he did nothing to cushion the fall, instead letting his attacker drop down to the asphalt like a sack of potatoes.

As soon as the man hit the ground, flat of his back and all air knocked out of him, John sat down in one swift motion. Never letting go of the other man's sleeve, John stretched his right leg out and tucked his left leg in, dropping to the floor and pining the man in place. His right hand went behind the young man's neck and John leaned across his chest with all his weight.

Leaning low to the other man's ear, John growled "You picked the wrong people to mess with. I could snap your head just like that and it wouldn't be the first time I've done it."

The man's eyes opened wide in fear. He'd clearly underestimated this short man, because try as he might, he couldn't get up.

John was completely calm again, if slightly annoyed, as he waited for Lestrade to come over and arrest the man. "Any time that would suit you, Lestrade, would be good."

As soon as the handcuffs clicked into place, John sprung up and raced over to where Sherlock was crouching and leaning against the alley wall. The Detective Inspector and Sergeant Donovan looked on as John seamlessly slipped from soldier mode to doctor mode, from fighter to healer, crouching down next to his best friend.

"Sherlock. Look at me. Where did he get you?" John's eyes were full of worry as he quickly scanned Sherlock for injuries.

"I'm fine, John, just a bit winded, he got me in the ribs" Sherlock tried to wave John off but the doctor was having none of it.

The initial cut across Sherlock's chest was wide but luckily didn't look too deep. There was another cut across his right shoulder and right arm that was deeper and clearly defensive wounds from when Sherlock had tried to shield himself from a blow.

"I'm fine, John. Nothing to worry about" Sherlock tried to placate the doctor and tried to push him away.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now stay still and stay down." The tone of voice made it clear that Captain Watson would not accept any arguments. So Sherlock made the executive decision to shut up and for once do as he was told.

John helped Sherlock out of his Belstaff coat to get a better look at the injuries. With practiced moves and gentle pressure, he checked Sherlock's rib cage for broken bones. Sherlock winced slightly but John couldn't feel anything moving underneath his hands.

"It's not broken but more than likely bruised. That's going to turn purple pretty soon. I'm afraid that breathing will hurt for a while. Plus, you've got several cuts and abrasions. I can treat them, and that cut across your chest will need stitches, but I can do that, there's no need to go to hospital."

"Seriously, John, I'll be fine. It's just a scratch." Sherlock tried to get up and experienced a certain bout of vertigo when he was finally upright. He looked down at himself and saw the blood spreading from his arm across his shoulder and then joining another blood stain further along his chest.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. Now let me treat them, or I swear I will call an ambulance and I will insist they keep you as long as possible at the hospital. I know how much you hate them and I am a doctor. Believe me when I say we can always find another test to run that will ensure you'll have to stay another two hours."

"You wouldn't dare!" Sherlock tried to sound menacing but it came out without much bite. John could tell. He gave the consulting detective a quick smile that basically said 'Me? Never!' before he said, equally sweet "Try me."

John led Sherlock over to one of the panda cars and sat him down on the backseat, with his feet still hanging out the door. He turned towards the assembled team. "I need a first aid kit. Donovan? Anderson? First aid kit would be great, if you're quite finished gawping at us, that is."

Sally went to retrieve the well-stocked kit from another car, mumbling to Anderson to stop staring. She handed the kit over to John who gladly took it.

He cleaned Sherlock's wounds, and bandaged them up. The cut across the detective's chest needed eight stitches and Sherlock impatiently huffed to John to just get on with it as the doctor waited patiently for the lidocaine cream to take effect. John worked quickly but efficiently, never compromising the quality of his work. The stitches couldn't have been better of he'd done them post-operation at a hospital somewhere rather than the back of a police car, in a damp and dirty alleyway.

"I've got painkillers at home should you need the, but we'll see how you do first. This is just to keep your arm still so the wounds don't open up on the way home," John said as he was folding a make-shift sling for Sherlock's arm and shoulder and tied it tightly.

"Right, all done mate." John gave Sherlock a hand up. "Let's get you home" he chuckled.

"Once again, John, you neglect your own injuries. Are you alright?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'll have a few bruises but that's about it. He didn't get me with the knife, after all."

As John handed the first aid kit back over to Sergeant Donovan, she said "Army doctor. I see it now. Those were some pretty impressive moves, Doctor Watson." John just smiled at her. "Good night, Sally."

"John, Sherlock, I'll text you later, ok? We'll need to get your statements but I'll let you take painkillers first, yeah?" Lestrade called after them.

"Don't forget, Lestrade. All the murders are linked. The boy might have committed the crimes but it's highly unlikely that he is the one behind the idea. It's his boss you want. And it's more likely drugs. Text me when you know more", Sherlock said before John dragged him away and hailed a taxi back to Baker Street.

13


	12. Chapter 12: Talk To Me

Talk To Me

By the time they got home it was late and both men were glad that they wouldn't have to explain their injuries to a fussing Mrs. Hudson as they sneaked past the downstairs flat and up the stairs.

Once inside their own apartment, John helped Sherlock out of his coat as the sling restricted movement.

"Right, let me have a look at those cuts in the light then. Bathroom. Now." John ordered.

"I'm fine, John, really no need to fuss…" Sherlock started but John gave a light push against Sherlock's injured shoulder and the detective winced in pain. John looked smug while Sherlock scowled at him.

"As I thought. Well, Sherlock, you have two choices. Either, I'll look at the wounds again and examine your ribs as well to make sure there's no possibility of a fracture and internal bleeding in which case I'll help you clean the wounds, bandage them and give you painkillers or you can suffer in silence and risk infections. Your choice."

John's voice was matter-of-fact and no-nonsense as he walked towards the bathroom to turn on the hot water tap. After a minute, the lanky detective appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Fine. Knock yourself out, John. I still think it's not necessary but if you insist…"

"I do. I'm your doctor after all. And I seem to remember this guy, not sure whether you know him but I believe Sherlock Holmes was his name, brilliant man, a real genius, saying something along the lines of only fools arguing with their doctors. As I said, genius, that guy, couldn't agree more" John grinned at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes but did concede that he had uttered words to that extent at some point when John had dragged him away from Lestrade on the basis of being exhausted.

John made Sherlock sit down on the closed toilet and helped him out of the sling and torn shirt. The cuts were already clean; he would just have to wash away the blood that had dried around them.

The doctor quickly found a wash cloth, dabbed it in the warm water he'd collected in a small bowl and went about cleaning the wounds methodically and applying antiseptic ointment on a few smaller scratches.

Sherlock's chest wound would need to stay bandaged for a few days and would definitely hurt, but the shoulder and arm wounds had stopped bleeding and the detective would not need a sling after all.

All over Sherlock's torso purple bruises were blooming. The attacker had got closer and inflicted more damage than Sherlock cared to admit but the evidence was there, on his skin.

Sherlock let John finish his job, then got up and went to his bedroom to get changed. Meanwhile, John returned to the kitchen, put the kettle on and rifled through the cabinets looking for painkillers. Ever since learning of Sherlock's past addiction, he'd made sure that he only kept medicine in the house that wouldn't cause Sherlock any damage or cause a relapse.

A few minutes later, Sherlock entered the kitchen just as John was adding milk to their teas.

"Here, these should help." He handed two aspirin and a glass of water to the sleuth, who had opted for his usual pyjama and blue dressing gown as his attire.

"Thanks", he said as he grabbed the pills and water and wandered over to the sofa where he gulped everything down before stretching out on the sofa. John carried the mugs over and sat down at Sherlock's desk.

"The cuts aren't too deep. Just keep the stitches clean and try not to pull them"

"Yes, John. I've actually had stitches before."

"I know, I'm just reminding you." He was rewarded with a dismissive hand gesture from Sherlock.

"Right. I'm starving. I'm ordering take away from Hakan's, they're open late. Joining me?"

Sherlock thought about it for a while. Technically, he was still on a case, but they had caught the culprit or so it seemed. Now it was up to Lestrade's trained monkeys to get a confession out of the suspect. He usually ate after cases… Before he could make up his mind, he could hear John placing his order for a shish kebab and chips, with a side order of cheesy garlic bread for Sherlock.

John knew the detective wasn't likely to eat yet, but the offer was there, like always. They sat in silence for a while and sipped their teas. Both were startled out of their daydreams by the sound of the doorbell heralding the arrival of food. John dashed downstairs to get it.

When he came back upstairs and started unpacking the Styrofoam boxes, Sherlock looked at him.

"What?" John could feel his friend's gaze burning on his back.

"How long have you been a judoka?"

John had to chuckle and was glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face as he transferred his dinner to a plate.

"I'm not."

"You must be."

John grinned as he took his dinner through to the living room and reclaimed his seat at the desk.

"I'm really not, Sherlock. Never fought judo in my life!" Trust Sherlock to be able to tell the martial art discipline from a single throw.

"That sweep, how you unbalanced him. And the hold you used on the floor. They are definitely judo." Sherlock started.

"They are. But I'm not a judoka."

"Then how do you know them? Granted, they were fairly basic, but they do require practice to get right, especially with the ease you demonstrated."

John grinned. "A friend of mine in the army showed me a few things. Hand to hand combat, anything goes. That particular maneuver saved my life a few times. I knew another throw where I lift my opponent over my back and shoulder and I know another hold to pin someone down but that's it. I never took classes or anything."

"You should, you know? You seem to have a talent. Martial arts are not for everyone. I myself am trained in baritsu, but I think judo would fit you as a martial art. It's gentle, non-violent and still effective." Sherlock explained.

"Well, I don't know about talent, Sherlock. I think the few things I know are enough for me, If I didn't learn it in combat training or from mates in the fifteen years I was on active duty, then I think I might be able to survive without it."

John tucked into his dinner like he had been starving. He had to admit that having a case was not only good for Sherlock, but it also took his own mind off Afghanistan for a moment. Patching Sherlock up had become such a common occurrence that it no longer triggered gruesome flashbacks.

Today at the crime scene had been the first time that the Yarders had seen him fight properly. He had single-handedly disarmed his opponent, fought off an attack, subdued him and held him down until Lestrade was able to cuff him. He had no doubt confirmed all the suspicions and theories the officers of New Scotland Yard had about him since that article came out. But the suspect was in custody and Sherlock still alive, so all was well.

Once John had finished his dinner, he waved the box with the garlic bread at Sherlock before placing it in the fridge.

"Well, I think I'll try and catch up on some sleep. Night, Sherlock."

The detective did not respond but John didn't really expect him to. Once Sherlock heard John's bedroom door close and his flat mate rummage around upstairs to get changed, the detective got up from the sofa and strolled over to the window and the music stand to pick up his violin.

He played a few notes, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder that flared up every time he moved the bow across the strings. But playing his instruments pulled the bandages even tighter and Sherlock could feel the pain spread from his shoulder into his arm. Halfway through his most recent composition, he reluctantly gave up and conceded that he should give it a rest for a night. After all, there were plenty of other things that could occupy his mind for a while. So he returned to the sofa, mindful of his bruises, and started sorting all the new information the last few days had revealed about John into the appropriate rooms of his Mind Palace.

Sherlock must have fallen asleep despite his best efforts, because he sat bolt upright and blinked awake when he heard John scream and thrash through another nightmare.

He still contemplated whether to put on the kettle or try to wake John up when another desperate and heart-wrenching scream from the bedroom upstairs made the decision for him.

Racing up the steps two at a time, Sherlock found himself spurred into motion and outside John's room way before he has time to make the conscious decision to move from the couch.

As he pushed open the door, the sights and sounds that greeted him made Sherlock feel like he had been punched in the stomach.

John was tangled up in his sheets, covered in sweat. He was thrashing around like someone who was forcibly held in place and tried desperately to escape.

"No! No, no, no, no! Nooooo! God, no!" he screamed, eyes clenched shut, hands grabbing the sheets so tightly that his knuckles turned white. John screamed again and then curled up until he was in fetal position, making himself as small as possible, lying on his side with his arms wrapped defensively around his head, whimpering and trying to present as small a target as possible.

The sight of the confident army doctor and soldier, who had just hours ago fought off and caught a murder suspect single-handedly, being reduced to a sobbing mess and begging for mercy was heartbreaking.

Sherlock deduced that John, while on one of his missions, had endured more than being held prisoner. This, the scene that was being played out in John's subconscious, looked decidedly like torture.

And if it was, then it'd been something John had deliberately chosen to keep secret. He had told Sherlock about everything else that was in his file, had bared his soul to his best friend. Sherlock suspected that John had tried to save face, to not come across as weak or anything less than confident by admitting that he at one point of his life had been reduced to beg for mercy.

Trapped in his nightmare, John kept up his mantra of "No, no, no, God, please, no!" crying out again and again, flinching away from invisible attacks. Sherlock knew he had to wake John up so his friend could escape his own subconscious.

"John!" he called out, while sitting down on the edge of John's mattress, carefully avoiding contact with his flat mate in order to stay safe. Sherlock knew from experience that trying to shake John awake was not a good idea, as the good doctor had attacked his flat mate and landed an impressive left hook to Sherlock's cheek before the cobwebs of sleep had cleared away and John had realized that he wasn't actually under attack. Sherlock wasn't taking his chances, but he knew he had to do something.

"John!" he called again, a bit louder this time. "John, wake up!"

But John kept tossing and turning and pleading.

That's when the detective decided to switch tactics. If e couldn't get John to wake up immediately, maybe he could at least try and change the dream.

"Watson!" he barked. Then he realized he had no idea what year it was in John's mind and what rank he held, so he couldn't call him Captain Watson.

"Soldier! Watson! Sit rep!" Sherlock did his best to convey the same authority that his tutors at boarding school had used. John visibly tensed at the tone of voice, and Sherlock was secretly impressed that it seemed to have worked.

"A…Ambushed, sir. Sergeant Crawford is dead, sir. Please, look out, they can't have gone far and they are armed" John mumbled, still asleep but at least responding.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Second Lieutenant John Watson, sir."

'Second Lieutenant' Sherlock thought. 'So this must have happened a while back. This is most likely after he was commissioned as a soldier, rather than when he joined the RAMC, but I'd better confirm it.'

"Not John Watson of the RAMC, surely?"

"No, sir, well, not anymore."

"Ok, Watson, I need you to move. Can you move?" Sherlock was glad he was getting through to John. John had stilled but his breathing still came fast and hard.

"I… I can't, sir. I'm bound, tied up, sir, and I can't see. My leg and fingers are broken, sir." Sherlock swallowed hard. So John had indeed been held somewhere and tortured, possibly before the two instances Sherlock knew about.

"Watson, I'm untying you, ok? Keep still for a second, I'll get you out of here. Look at me, Watson. Open your eyes!" and to Sherlock's utter amazement, actually John did.

He looked at Sherlock but still seemed to be trapped in a place his mind didn't want him to escape from.

"Sit up, soldier." John tried. He twitched his fingers and tried to lift himself up off the mattress but gave a cry of pain and collapsed again. Then he tried to roll onto his side and brushed his feet against his shins, which caused him to scream in agony and inhale sharply.

"Sir, I can't move. They burned the soles of my feet, sir, so I wouldn't run. I fear my injuries might be worse than I first thought, sir, I'm a doctor but I can't see the extent of the wounds…"

Sherlock couldn't believe his ears. It made him sick to think that John, his friend, his only friend, had been treated in such a way. But John was still asleep, Sherlock could worry about everything else later.

"Back up is on the way, we'll have you out of here in no time. Let me see your injuries, Watson, I need to make sure that we can get you out of here in one piece." John gave the tiniest of nods and with that, Sherlock reached out a hand and touched John's good shoulder. He pulled his friend up into a sitting position and put both hands onto his shoulders until he could see John focusing in on him. John blinked, slightly taken aback.

"Sh… Sherlock? I was… I mean, I was, and you… you were…." He looked at Sherlock, confusion written clearly all over his face.

"It's alright, John. You had a nightmare and I felt it necessary to wake you, you sounded like you were in agony and you wouldn't wake up when I tried to call you."

John was still looking around his room, trying to blink the visions away. Sherlock, in a rare display of tact, decided not to probe for the time being, at least until John had calmed down and collected himself again.

"I'll put the kettle on. Come downstairs when you're ready", Sherlock said and left the room. When the detective reached the main floor of the apartment, he found a worried Mrs. Hudson standing in on the landing, wrapped up in a bathrobe and with curlers in her hair.

"What's going on, Sherlock? Is he alright? I heard screams", she was frantic but calmed down a bit when she realized that Sherlock looked more relieved than worried.

"Everything's alright Mrs. Hudson. John had a nightmare, but he's awake now. Go back to sleep, it's all under control, I promise." He hugged her and gave her a peck on the cheek before he kindly but decisively turned her around towards the stairs with a smile on his lips.

John meanwhile had dropped back down onto his sheets, still trying to collect his thoughts and slow his breathing down again. He tried hard not to think about how much of the dream was his imagination and how much Sherlock might actually have heard.

Eventually, he rubbed his face, gathered his dressing gown and joined his friend in the living room for the promised cup of tea.

Entering the living room downstairs, John found two mugs of tea ready and waiting, sitting on the coffee table. He grabbed one before sitting down in his armchair.

"I suppose you want to know what that was all about", John said after a few sips of his brew, feeling the warmth spread back through his whole body.

"It's… it's your wounds…. That's what triggered me" he confessed with a small voice and looking away from his friend.

Sherlock was a bit surprised by this. By John's own admission, his wounds hadn't been severe.

"But I'm fine, John. You stitched me up, remember? They look worse than they are."

"Of course I remember" John sighed. "It's just… the position of the wounds… I've seen them before. Felt them before myself, too."

Sherlock recalled a mental image of John's scarred torso. Now that he thought about it, there had been a long scar across his chest, but it was a silvery line now. John had said most of his scars either came from his years in the army or sport injuries and he hadn't given them much further thought than that.

Grabbing his own cup of tea and lowering himself into his leather chair, Sherlock looked at John for a moment, deductions flying left, right and centre through his head. He opted not to voice them for the time being.

"You spoke to me, you know? In your nightmare. You called yourself Second Lieutenant Watson and said you were formerly of the RAMC, so clearly this must have been around ten years ago, when you signed up for front line action. You've seen duty in Congo, Iraq and Afghanistan since then. You've been in Afghanistan on more tours than Iraq, so there's a better chance for this to have taken place there. It was also your first tour there, given your rank. You've seen a lot of action in a lot of different hot spots and this clearly didn't happen at a base somewhere. Given what I now know about your service records, this was a covert mission. Fairly early on. It wasn't your first or you wouldn't have gone back for more, but it was still early in your career. Am I right?"

Sherlock put his cup down and looked at his blogger, who swallowed hard once he's caught up with Sherlock's deduction. The doctor looked defeated, the nights of interrupted sleep and too many nightmares taking their toll on him.

"Yes, you're right. It happened in Afghanistan, towards the end of my first tour there." John sighed in defeat and Sherlock knew just by looking at him that John had made the decision to share this last secret with him as well, not banking on getting any more sleep that night.

"I was young. It was a pretty quiet day and Sergeant Crawford decided to give me a bit of training. I was the newest member of the team, had only just arrived at our base the night before and we were supposed to move out about a week later and try and reclaim a village that had reportedly been harbouring al-Qaeda operatives. We were busy collecting intel and I had only just got there, so the Sergeant took me out on exercise to see if I was any good. We were only supposed to be out for about two hours give or take. Our vehicle broke down, it had been a sort of primitive stinger but it did the trick. Slashed two tyres and we only carried one spare. While we were out examining the damage and jacking the car up, we were overpowered. They jumped us, at least ten men who had been well hidden until then. We were simply outnumbered, even though we did put up a fight. The next thing I know is that we're in a room somewhere."

John took another calming sip of tea before he continued.

"To this day, I do believe we were not meant to be their target. I think they'd wanted to get a supply truck, possibly the medical van carrying drugs. But they obviously didn't mind too much. Crawford started to mouth off and one of the guys snapped. They started to beat the crap out of us. Then they tied our hands behind our backs and roughly shoved us down some stairs. I broke my leg. Crawford was not so lucky. He landed next to me… but he broke his neck during the fall. He was dead on impact. It all happened so quickly. The next thing I know is that someone held a knife to my throat and ordered me to move. As I said… I was young and cocky. Stupid, you'd say. I just saw red. They had just killed my superior. My hands were tied and my leg broken but I barely felt it at the time. I tried to fight. Avenge Crawford's death…"

John looked up at Sherlock who still sat across from him, watching him intently while John fidgeted with his tea mug.

"Needless to say I could barely keep upright. Next thing I know, the knife cut into my chest. It… it sliced me half open. I panicked, lunged forward. One of the guys held me and turned me around, tied me to a bench, blindfolded me. He asked where they could get drugs from. I refused to answer. For every question I refused to answer, he bent one of my fingers so far back that it snapped and broke… I had lost a lot of blood, could still feel it running down my chest. When the finger-breaking didn't have the desired effect, one of them pulled off my boots and socks and held a flame to my bare feet. Sensory deprivation can play so many tricks on your mind. I could only hear and feel what they were doing. I held out as long as I could, but it hurt like hell. Then I felt the tip of the knife again and they started to dig around the wound with it, making it wider, I thought that was it."

By now, John had abandoned his tea on the side table and rearranged himself in such a way that he sat almost cross-legged. He started worrying the bottom of his pyjama trousers instead. Sherlock got up slowly and wordlessly placed a hand on top of John's to still them. John looked up, a grateful expression on his face despite the worry and pain still visible there.

"I thought that was it for me. It was my first time anywhere near a front line and the first time I thought I'd die… I held out for two days before I gave them an address, one I knew would be highly guarded. And then they laughed and left me there. Bound, bleeding, with a broken leg and broken fingers. Nobody knew where I was and Crawford was dead. I didn't expect to be rescued. A patrol came through the village two days later and found me by chance. I was half delirious by then. I got taken back to base, eventually recovered. I know it's illogical, but I was itching to get out there after that. To show them they hadn't broken me by a long shot. And I managed fine. But maybe they did succeed after all."

The tea had gone cold by now but John still drank it all anyway. Then he rubbed his face, ran a shaky hand through his blonde hair.

"God, I can't believe it Sherlock. I'm pathetic. I mean, look at me. One cut, not even on myself, and one that doesn't even need a lot of stitches and I'm losing it spectacularly…" John buried his face in his hands.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You're far from pathetic! You had a scare. It triggered a response. We'll deal with it. That's all. A lot of people went through far less than you had to go through and they are only coping half as well as you are, if they are coping at all. It's ok, John. We all know you, John. You're strong, courageous, loyal. Selfless. You're a protector and a healer. You've lived through war zones and whatever London can throw at us on a regular basis. You're allowed to have nightmares. It doesn't make you weak. It's how our subconscious deals with traumatic events, how our minds try to make sense of what we've experienced so that maybe. You've had an extremely stressful week, in which you've been forced to relive the darkest days of your career. Had to relive and talk about the days you almost died. It's our body's natural response."

Sherlock deliberately held John's gaze, trying to look reassuring as he crouched down before John's chair so he wouldn't be looming over his friend.

"You know I've always held you in high esteem – you're my only friend, John. But not just that. I know your skills and talents, we all know how you'd do anything to help those in need, as a doctor, and as a soldier, and you've proven this time and time again, often without concern for your own well-being. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and I know you, John. We know who you are and we all trust you. One nightmare more or less is not going to change that. Not now, not ever. We're not responsible for what our mind wants to show us when we don't have conscious control over it. That does not make you pathetic. Understood?"

John gave the slightest of nods and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Understood. I just… I should be over it. I hate not being in control and I'd love to have a full night's sleep for once."

Sherlock got up and went to the bathroom, just to return moments later with a glass of water and a dropper. He offered all of it to John who took it and inspected it closely, curious about the contents but wary, knowing Sherlock's tendency to experiment.

"Don't worry, it's safe. Completely organic. It's only rescue drops. I find they sometimes help more than any sleeping pills. They're not meant to knock you out, but they do calm you down. I actually wrote a blog about all its properties, you should look it up sometime. Believe me, I know all about wanting to make your mind shut up sometimes. You could try them, if you want to try to sleep again, that is."

Sherlock gave John a genuine smile, and John could tell Sherlock meant it. He may not have had the nightmares that plagued John, but he had wanted to escape his own mind before.

John glanced at the small bottle in his hand and pulled out the dropper.

"Oh, just a few drops in the water will do", Sherlock supplied and John added five drops to the glass.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I hate to dump all this on you. I know it makes you uncomfortable. It's just that stupid article… It's like it dislodged an avalanche of suppressed memories I can't get it to stop. Rather it seems to just mow me down. I feel like my subconscious is trying to suffocate me sometimes…." He left a long pause while he got up and pulled the old throw with him to the couch, where he lay down again while Sherlock returned to his armchair.

Once he'd settled down properly, John turned towards his friend again.

"Um… would you… you know… would you mind playing for me again?" John asked, barely audible.

Sherlock sighed.

"I wish I could, John, but I can't tonight. I've tried before and with the cut on my arm and shoulder… well… I can't move the bow properly without the bandage chafing against the wounds. I'm sorry."

Sherlock was frustrated that his body could betray him like that. The stupid thing was only meant to be transport. It was especially frustrating because he knew that it would take no effort on his part to help John. He liked playing the violin and he always played for John whether he'd been asked to or not.

"Oh. No, that's fine, Sherlock. Don't worry about it. It's fine, honestly." John was quick to reassure him.

But Sherlock got up and put on a recording of his favourite compositions for the violin. Maybe it would help John, and the music would definitely help him think. "Compromise?" he asked.

"Definitely. Thank you." John smiled and pulled the blanket around himself.

Sherlock settled back down in his armchair to muse over the case again as he watched the former soldier sleep.

12


	13. Chapter 13: Lennon And McCartney

Lennon And McCartney

John woke up the next morning thinking that these late night heart-to-hearts with Sherlock had to stop. Sherlock Holmes didn't care for sentiment or debilitating nightmares.

John's army career had been long and half of it dangerous and he'd gotten injured way too many times to count them all.

But he was a soldier, injuries came with the territory. John just hoped that once he'd received the Victoria Cross and the media attention died down again, so would his nightmares. They had been far and few between since he moved to Baker Street all that time ago, and now they were back with a vengeance and John didn't care for it one bit.

Mycroft really had done a good job of keeping the journalists at bay. Only a few had managed to get in contact with John directly, agents kept traffic moving smoothly along Baker Street and Sherlock had unplugged the landline just in case.

John didn't particularly want to retell his story to strangers. Sherlock, he could deal with and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly as well. But not the vultures lingering on the doorstep of 221b. John watched from the window as another reporter was swiftly moved along down the street and told not to return by the men in graphite suits.

While John made breakfast, Sherlock researched online for to find more clues for their latest case. Just as John had sat down at the desk with a plate of toast and omelette, Greg Lestrade walked through the door and into 221b Baker Street. The agents must have recognised him and Mrs. Hudson must have let him in as neither of the two tenants had heard the door bell chime.

Both Sherlock and John looked up at the Detective Inspector expectantly. Taking in Sherlock's still damp hair and John's slightly disheveled look and the freshly cooked breakfast, Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Sorry, is this a bad time?" With an exaggerated wave of his arm and a mouthful of omelette, John gestured for the DI to come in and make himself at home.

"Nah, it's fine. Morning Greg. Just let me finish this and get changed, yeah? It's not often that mad man over there lets me enjoy a full meal" John smirked. Sherlock pretended not to hear John as he looked more closely at the Detective Inspector.

"There's been another one. He's escalating."

"Yes, in another dumpster, behind another club and with another stamp. I need you to take a look." Lestrade produced a cardboard tray holding three coffees that he's kept hidden so far by placing it on the low shelf on the landing.

He grinned at John as he revealed it. "Brought a peace offering, by the way… or bribe, if you prefer" and handed out steaming cups of Speedy's strongest coffee.

"You're a life saver, Greg. Ta!" John happily accepted the cup Lestrade handed him.

"You must be desperate if you stop to get coffee for us just so we take a look at another crime scene. But then again, I still don't understand what merits some of your crime scene technicians to be titled as such. Did yesterday's suspect not give you any clues or have you just not figured them out yet?" Sherlock said as he grabbed his coffee.

"He means thank you, Greg. Much appreciated." John chipped in and grinned at both detectives.

"Yes."

"No worries. I know better than to take offense at that. Known him long enough after all."

"I'm right here, you know?" Sherlock said as he took a sip.

"The guy we arrested last night was just a hired hand. Someone else seems to have taken over."

"Obviously. Well, we'll meet you there. Just leave the address, we'll be right behind. As you can see, we're both not quite ready yet."

"Oh yes, right. Thanks, guys." Lestrade turned to leave but then remembered something else. "Oh, how's your chest, by the way, Sherlock?"

"It's fine, a mere scratch." Sherlock waved it off.

"Oh, ok. Good. I'm glad. Anyway, see you in a few. John, don't let him rush you. The victim's dead and my team's at the scene, he can wait five more minutes for you to arrive." The DI turned on his heels and headed back down the stairs while Sherlock retreated to his own bedroom to get changed.

"I'll just jump in the shower real quick, Sherlock. Put the kettle on, I'll need another cuppa if you want me to come with", the former soldier shouted down the hallway as he went into the bathroom for a quick rinse and shave.

Looking at himself in the mirror he flinched. The bags under his eyes had become even more pronounced, the night terrors taking a visible toll on him. With a sigh he stepped under the water, the initial cold shocking his body awake somewhat.

When John emerged from the bathroom fully dressed and feeling marginally more awake, Sherlock was already pacing through the living room. To his credit, he had put the kettle on again, he'd just forgotten to refill John's mug with another tea bag. Once this was remedied, John downed the tea in big gulps so the two of them could get going to Lestrade's new crime scene.

The body they found was just like the last one; young, male and dressed for a night of clubbing. He looked a bit more respectable, but not expensively so.

The only thing different about this victim was his skin colour. While the other three men had been fair or olive skinned, this latest body's skin was the colour of rich coffee. Alive he must have been a good-looking, if not striking, young man.

The nightclub stamp on his hand was barely discernible due to the dark ink on dark skin, but a UV light eventually revealed it.

This time, Sherlock did not jump into the dumpster, dismissing it as unimportant. He left that job to Anderson.

Meanwhile, John crouched down next to the body to help examine the man. He too had been bludgeoned to death; the man's face was bashed in, his eye sockets, nose and teeth broken with a blunt object. John thought that the murder weapon could very possibly be a pipe or a cricket bat.

"Lestrade, can you get me close ups of all the nightclub stamps? The connection has to be in the clubs. Check the clubs, see whether the regulars know about any recent drug deals gone wrong, or new management taking over." Sherlock said while examining a speck of dirt on the floor.

"Sure, Sherlock. This guy doesn't look like a drug dealer, though."

"Maybe he doesn't, but that doesn't mean he can't still be one."

"True" Lestrade agreed and scribbled into his notebook.

"He's in his early 30s, well-dressed and with that level of personal grooming clearly trying to appear to be of higher social standing. Well-educated, even though he spent his childhood in poverty. Scholarship student from abroad, then. From what is left of his dental work, I'd say Ghanaian. Plus, you'll probably find the tell-tale scar of the polio jab on his triceps when you do the autopsy. He lived alone but had a string of lovers. He dressed to impress and the packet of condoms in his breast pocket speaks for itself. He went to clubs regularly; he had an old promo leaflet for another club in his pocket. Lestrade, I suggest you start your search there."

Sherlock handed over the crumpled piece of paper he'd found on the body.

"Text me if there's anything else. Come along, John."

John actually had to jog to catch up to his flat mate as he was leaving the crime scene.

"That's it?" he asked once he'd reached Sherlock. The consulting detective just looked at him blankly.

"You're still convinced he was either a dealer or a pimp, aren't you?"

"Of course. They are the most likely choices. And I do have a certain amount of practice at spotting drug dealers, if you recall. Why do you ask?"

John winced a bit at the reminder. It had been years since Sherlock had spoken to him about recovering from his cocaine addiction. For all intends and purposes, he'd always viewed Sherlock as clean and sober. So for Sherlock Holmes to intentionally remind John that he was once an addict and would probably have blended right in with the clientele at the clubs they were currently investigating was unexpected.

"No, I know, Sherlock. It's probably nothing anyway… just a hunch, really. He didn't strike me as the type to deal or do drugs, and I can picture him as a player, definitely, but not as a pimp."

Sherlock just gave a non-committal hum.

"Well, I'm sure Lestrade will find out soon enough."

They sat in comfortable silence on the taxi ride back to Baker Street. John lost in his thoughts and Sherlock wandering the expansive corridors of his Mind Palace.

Back at the flat, Sherlock grabbed his laptop for some more research, while John rummaged around the fridge for something to eat. Deciding that the easiest and quickest option for lunch would be grilled cheese, John quickly set about preparing the food.

When he sat down at the desk with a plate of food and his own laptop, Sherlock was already typing away furiously.

"Found something?" he enquired, regarding his flat mate with one raised eyebrow.

"Maybe. I'm indexing where the bodies were found and the nightclubs they'd been to. They are all over the place so far. There is no way a pimp could hold sway over such a large area. Drugs are looking more and more likely." Sherlock explained without looking up.

John quickly finished his meal and grabbed a map of London. After all this time living together he knew Sherlock's methods, so he spread the map out on the coffee table, grabbed a permanent marker and sat himself down on the couch.

"Right, then. Which clubs did Lestrade say they'd been to?" He looked up at Sherlock expectantly, marker at the ready.

When they'd marked all the clubs, John could see that they were indeed spread all over the city. But it wasn't until they started to also mark in the dumpsters in which the victims had been found that a pattern became evident.

Once Sherlock saw it, he was almost disappointed. Could it really be this straight forward?

The first victim had been found at the club the second victim had visited. He in turn had been found behind club number three. Sherlock groaned inwardly at his own stupidity. There was no need for John to see or hear it, as he was sure the soldier would never let him live it down.

Knowing the army doctor, he'd gloat about it for weeks if he wasn't careful. John however did notice the slightly annoyed huff his friend let out and smirked to himself.

Finally his life resembled some kind of normality again with them solving cases and sharing laughs; Sherlock being brilliance personified and John the stalwart and steadfast partner who could see right through Sherlock's façade and call him out on it. It was what passed for normality at 221b Baker Street and John wouldn't have it any other way.

The nightmares of the previous nights momentarily forgotten, John enjoyed the thrill of the chase. Sherlock watched John in his peripheral vision and smiled. Finally, John seemed focused on the task at hand and not reliving the war.

Absent-mindedly, Sherlock scratched the bandage currently covering the laceration across his chest. John noticed and went into doctor mode immediately. "Is it itchy? Does it hurt?" he asked and pointed at Sherlock's chest.

"No, it's fine."

"I'll be the judge of that, Sherlock. I've got to change the bandages anyway. Stay here, I'll just grab my med kit", John said, already on his feet and halfway to the bathroom.

"It's fine, John, really" Sherlock started, but his friend was having none of it.

John grabbed the bag and noted that he would have to re-stock yet again pretty soon. Apparently one could never have too many bandages when living at Baker Street.

Before he returned to the living room, John grabbed a glass of water and retrieved the painkillers. As he put his kit and the water down on the desk, John stood back and fixed his gaze on the consulting detective.

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.

John assumed his army stance, feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed in front of his chest. And waited. Sherlock didn't move, he just looked around the room at the medical bag. John started tapping his foot after a while. Sherlock just leaned back and smiled.

"Shirt off, Holmes. Now."

Sherlock knew that tone of voice. It was John's take-no-prisoners command voice. A voice which made new recruits coming to the 'shun quicker than Sherlock could blink, he knew. Even Sherlock had learned to obey John's command voice, although he thought to himself that he'd draw the line should John ever demand he 'drop and give him twenty.'

The consulting detective knew that an argument with Captain Watson would be futile and the bandages did indeed need redressing. He glared at John for another minute for good measure; John just raised an eyebrow. Two could play that game.

Eventually, Sherlock relented and started to unbutton his shirt, uncovering the white bandages underneath.

John got a bowl of warm water and his antiseptic cream ready and then helped Sherlock remove the bandages. He sighed with relief when he saw no indications of infection. The itch had probably just been caused by the fabric scratching along the sutures.

He quickly cleaned and redressed the wounds and checked Sherlock's shoulder movement. Satisfied that his friend's wounds were already healing nicely, John got up and went to the kitchen to dispose of the used bandages and let Sherlock redress himself.

Chuckling about the fact that it was completely normal for him now to have a medical waste bin in the kitchen, John went about fixing tea for the two of them.

"Thanks, John" he could hear Sherlock mumbling behind him.

"No worries, Sherlock. Here, I made you a cuppa as well." He passed a steaming mug over to the younger Holmes brother who had wandered into the kitchen and followed him back out into the living room.

Both men sat down in their armchairs, lost in thought as they sipped their teas.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"  
"Sherlock, at the crime scene earlier. Didn't you say that the victim had some sort of flyer on him?"

"Hm? Oh that! Yes. It was some nightclub promotion or other. I glanced at the date, it was one and a half weeks ago, so it's hardly relevant for this case." Sherlock dismissed it.

"Hm. What was it? A new club opening? Happy Hour? Battle of the Bands? A concert of some sort?" John listed all the potential reasons for clubs handing out flyers to their patrons.

"I wouldn't call the sort of musical gatherings taking place in nightclubs 'concerts', John. Remind me to get us tickets for the Proms this year."

"I'm sure your idea of a concert is very different to mine. Even though I attended what was arguably the best live concert ever held", John teased smugly, leaning back and grinning at Sherlock, who had looked up with interest.

"That's preposterous, John!" Sherlock exclaimed and John really had to hold back the laughter. Sometimes it was just too easy to bait Sherlock. And boy, the man bit each and every time.

"Besides, I had no idea that you liked that rendition of Mozart's Magic Flute. But I agree, it was the best I have ever witnessed."

"I'm not talking about Mozart, Sherlock" John chuckled.

"Bach? Brahms? Schubert? Vivaldi?" Sherlock prompted. John just grinned.

"That's exactly my point, Sherlock. I'm not talking about classical music. I'm talking about rock music."

"Dull", Sherlock dismissed and sighed, that conversation could have been quite interesting.

"You wouldn't say that if you had seen Queen perform live at Live Aid 1985…" John took another sip and placed the mug on the side table.

"The Queen gave a concert? I was under the impression she only played privately!" Sherlock looked at John, surprise written all over his face and John doubled over and absolutely lost it. It took him a good three minutes to stop laughing and he was glad he'd put the mug down because they'd both be covered in tea by now otherwise.

Once he'd got his breathing under control a bit, tears of laughter still in his eyes and his abused ribs complaining at having laughed so hard, John looked back up to Sherlock. His friend just sat there with a confused look at his face, trying hard to work out what it was that had got John in hysterics like that.

"Not The Queen our monarch, Sherlock" John laughed and rolled his eyes. "Queen the band! You know? Freddie Mercury, Bryan May… Come on, you must know some of their songs! We will rock you? Bohemian Rhapsody? Queen live at Live Aid! Possibly the best concert in history. How can you not know?"

"John, you know I don't concern myself with trivia such as this. And whether one concert is better than the other is highly objective." Sherlock continued to calmly sip his tea while he flicked dust particles off his armchair's armrest with his free hand.

"Oh come on! Have you never had a favourite band growing up? Any LPs you listened to?"

"Of course I had LPs, John. I had recordings of the London Symphony Orchestra playing all my favourite composers."

John looked at him a bit dumbstruck. Then he sipped more of his tea and asked casually "I take it there's no chance any of them were called Lennon and McCartney, is there?"

Sherlock thought back for a while.

"No, I don't think so. I mostly listened to British, German, Austrian and Italian composers, although I was also quite fond of Camille Saint-Saëns."

That earned him another eye roll from the good doctor.

"Living with you, I've actually learned to tell some of those composers apart, you know? And that you would like the composer of Danse Macabre is not a surprise." Sherlock was astounded that John had got the reference right. Apparently it showed, because John frowned.

"Don't look at me like that. I used to watch Jonathan Creek in the 90s. Danse Macabre is the theme music. Which proves I know more about music than you do." John grinned again.

"I really don't think so, John."

"Right then. I just have one question for you, Sherlock. Who are Lennon and McCartney?"

Sherlock gave a petulant huff which almost had John in stitches again.

"Clearly they are not important or I wouldn't have deleted the information" Sherlock said, raising his nose higher. Suddenly, John was quiet and Sherlock dared to look across at his friend. John just stared at him in utter disbelief.

"Sherlock, you can't be serious! You've never heard of The Beatles? John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr?" John prompted.

"Lennon and McCartney! They were one of the best, most influential and successful songwriting duos of the twentieth century! You must have heard about The Beatles! How can you grow up in Britain and not know The Beatles?" John was gobsmacked, still trying to work out whether Sherlock was having him on or not.

"I can assure you, I have not. Besides, contemporary music was frowned upon. Mummy didn't approve. Both Mycroft and I received classical training. I play the violin, obviously, but I also learned to play the piano when I was three. Mycroft was much the same, except that he chose cello and piano. I opted for saxophone lessons at boarding school, I knew it would annoy Mycroft and Mummy, but it was taught at school and therefore deemed acceptable."

"Hang on, You can play the piano and saxophone?" John thought that the whole conversation was getting weirder and weirder.

"I believe I just said that, do pay attention, John!" The doctor just looked at the detective and couldn't find a hint of humour or sarcasm.

"I had no idea. I'd like to hear you play some day. Piano and sax, that is. Didn't pick you for playing a jazz instrument, but I guess it fits." John stated, glad he was already sitting down.

"I prefer the violin. Besides, I don't see you taking out your clarinet or dragging a piano in here." Sherlock was watching his friend intently.

"I'm not even going to ask how you knew. I was never any good, though. Clarinet was a bit of a Watson tradition that my great-granddad started and piano was compulsory at my school. I learned to play the guitar though, during my army days. A mate taught me." John laughed at how the conversation had gone from discussing a crime scene to discussing musical proficiency.

"I would say that Grade 5 clarinet is fairly good." John just huffed.

"How do you know I got Grade 5? And yeah, maybe it wasn't so bad when I actually still had time to practice but knowing you, you probably passed Grade 8 with flying colours in all three instruments. Probably had to show off, doing Music Theory or something too."

"Very good, John! I see my methods are finally starting to rub off on you, not all is lost." Sherlock smirked.

"You're right. Anything less than Grade 8 was unacceptable for my parents. And I did study music theory although I opted for solo jazz with the saxophone."

John chuckled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You? You did solo jazz?"

"Yes. Is that so hard to believe?" Sherlock really didn't see why John found that so bizarre.

"Sherlock, a minute ago you had never heard of Queen or The Beatles and now you're telling me you're a pretty accomplished jazz player. I mean, the classical music I can see. I've know you long enough and I've heard you compose for the violin. I'm just having trouble picturing you with a saxophone, let alone playing jazz."

"Why?" Sherlock was genuinely surprised. He'd always thought it was obvious. "Jazz can be anything you like. You can even improvise. I've always found the music resembled the way my mind works. Granted, I could have played jazz on the piano, but the saxophone annoyed my parents and it was worth it just for that", he grinned.

John thought about that for a while. Sherlock's explanation made sense. He could be quiet or loud, fast or slow, change melodies halfway and still produce something beautiful while playing jazz.

"Fair enough. I guess that makes sense. I kind of figured that unlike my big sister, your brother did not grow up listening to The Clash and the Sex Pistols and passing on that musical taste."

"Sex Pistols?"

"Yeah. 70s punk band. I bet Anarchy in the UK was not as popular in the Holmes household as it was in the Watson residence at the time." Sherlock drew back, slightly appalled.

"Yes, I can assure you that my mother would not have allowed anything with a title like that past the front door." John's grin grew wider again.

"How about David Bowie, then? Fleetwood Mac? The Who?" Sherlock shook his head at every band John listed.

"Right, remind me to get my vinyl records back from Harry. I'll make a connoisseur of decent music out of you yet!" John leaned back in his armchair, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Sherlock held his gaze, a smile also on his lips, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'Is that so?'

Neither of them realized who started laughing first, but soon they were breaking out in uncontrollable giggles at the absolute absurdity of the conversation they had just had.

As Sherlock joined the laughter, he was glad to see John sufficiently distracted from his nightmares and knew that John cherished the few moments of idle chit-chat between them that had really been far and few between recently.

Sherlock conceded that maybe he should make more of an effort to talk to his friend more often about mundane things, for the sake of conversation more than to talk through information pertaining to a case.

John was, after all, his only friend and if talking about trivial things like music was enough to keep a war hero's PTSD at bay for a while, then that was a small price to pay on the part of a certain consulting detective.

After a while, John gathered himself again and calmed down a bit.

"Right then, back to the case. There was some sort of concert promo flyer in the victim's pocket. But you dismissed it."

"Yes, obviously, John. It wasn't even a current flyer, the event has already been."

"Fair enough. Any other clues?"

"Not yet."

John returned to his laptop to type up a blog post, but made up his mind halfway through. He took another look at the London street map and the markers he had placed at all the crime scene locations. He typed the name of the first club into the search bar.

Sherlock watched as John frowned at the computer and returned to typing just to frown some more a minute later.

"Er… Sherlock?" I think I found something. Have a look." He turned his laptop around so Sherlock could see.

Sherlock's eyes flickered across the web page that John had opened and then his eyes widened as understanding dawned on him.

"John, I've said it before, as a conductor of light you are unbeatable! But I think this time you have outdone yourself! This is brilliant!"


	14. Chapter 14: Hidden Talents

Hidden Talents

Thirty minutes later, the two men got out of a cab in front of New Scotland Yard. An idea had formed in Sherlock's mind by the time they got there and John had an idea of his own, but they would need the help of Lestrade and his team to pull it off.

As usual, Sherlock dashed out of the cab and into the building without a backwards glance, and left John to pay their fare and hurry after the detective.

When John entered New Scotland Yard, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. 'Just great' John thought. 'Bloody bastard couldn't even hold the lift!'

He stabbed the Up button angrily and paced in front of the lift. John was positively fuming by the time he heard the 'bing' of the lift door.

When Sherlock got to Lestrade's squad room, the first thin he noticed was the front page article about John that had been cut out and carefully attached to the squad notice board by the water cooler in pride of place. He smiled to himself. This was very good news, the team was finally starting to see John for who he really is, instead of waving him off as Sherlock's sidekick.

"Hey Sherlock! What are you doing here? Where's John?" Greg Lestrade called from the door of is office when he spotted the unruly mop of curls that no doubt belonged to the lanky consulting detective currently strolling through his squad room.

"He's right behind. We have something to discuss with you!"

"Mr. Holmes? Sorry, sir. I was just wondering… That article about Dr Watson – is it true? Is he really being awarded the Victoria Cross?" one young female officer on the homicide team asked.

"Yes, as far as that is concerned, every word is true."

Now every pair of eyes in the room was on Sherlock.

"He will not only be awarded the Victoria Cross, but also the Military Cross and Bar. He's done everything the articles say and more, and trust me when I say that the honours that will be bestowed on John Watson are the very least he deserves. I've seen Captain Watson in action, as I am sure all of you have seen Doctor Watson in action. I'm sure you all agree that he is a worthy recipient of our country's highest honour."

Every head in the room nodded, all the officers tried to reconcile the well-known image of the jeans and cardigan clad doctor with the newspaper picture of the soldier with blood on his uniform, a medical kit over one shoulder and a rifle over the other.

Just as Sherlock was about to turn back around to Lestrade, the lift beeped and opened its doors to reveal one Doctor John Hamish Watson.

Clasping his hands behind his back, John stepped out of the lift into the squad room. He looked around and winced when he saw the front page story about himself pinned to the notice board. When he took another step forward towards DI Lestrade and Sherlock, a young man in the back of the room stood up and started a slow clap. The next to get up and join in was Sally Donovan, closely followed by Lestrade and the rest of the team.

The clapping increased in crescendo and even Sherlock joined in and smiled. John stood frozen to the spot, not knowing how best to react.

At some point, he started to make out music over the speakers of the announcement system in the room. It took John a while to recognise the tune but he had to chuckle when he realized that someone was playing Chariots of Fire. John suspected the culprit to be Anderson.

He took another step forward and bowed theatrically, complete with flourish, before he made his way over to the Detective Inspector.

The doctor has a precise and confident stride and half of Lestrade's team either patted him on the shoulder or shook his hand when he made his way over.

There even was a wolf whistle or two from the back of the room.

Lestrade had just enough time to move his phone away from the microphone and hit pause before John joined them. He grinned sheepishly at John but the doctor just shook his head and laughed.

Lestrade handed a card over to John, who looked at the DI quizzically. Sherlock just stood back and watched.

Opening the card, John saw that every officer on the homicide squad had signed it. Across the top of the card, he could see Greg's neat handwriting saying 'Congratulations, John, on your Victoria Cross investiture. It's an honour to work with you.'

A female script had added in brackets 'And thank you for taming Sherlock Holmes. Much obliged!' along with a smiley face. John grinned, knowing it was Sergeant Sally Donovan who had written it.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Erm... I think you came in for a reason, guys?"

"Oh, yes. We no longer think that the victims were drug dealers or pimps. We believe they worked for local record labels. Each victim attended karaoke and live music events at those nightclubs." Sherlock explained quickly.

"There's another event tomorrow night, calling musicians to come and play with a chance of getting signed by an independent label", John cut in. "Tomorrow's event will be hosted by The Brickyard."

"Brickyard? That's where the last victim was found." Lestrade frowned.

"Yes, it is. There is a pattern. And we had an idea for an undercover operation." John chimed in.

"At the end of the operation you'll most likely have a serial killer in custody. So what do you say, Lestrade? Are you in or out?" Sherlock smirked.

"I know I'll probably regret this, but let's hear your plan then", the DI gave in.

Sherlock started pacing up and down in front of the officer's desk while he explained the plan he and John had come up with.

"Tomorrow's event requires musicians to play an instrument and be able to sing. We get someone to go on stage, get them to go through a whole performance and make it believable that they want that contract. I'll pose as a new producer, out judging the talent and trying to spot the next big thing. If my suspicions are correct, I will soon be approached by the club owner and a loyal producer, offering a bribe so I keep my hands off 'their' talent. Obviously, I'll refuse. At which point, Lestrade, you and your officers should be able to catch the killer red-handed."

Lestrade had paid attention to Sherlock's plan and was actually impressed.

"OK, that's actually not bad for an undercover suggestion coming from you. Let me ask around then. We need a musician."

Lestrade assembled his team and asked who in the room could play an instrument and sing and to make themselves known by show of hand. Only a handful actually could, and of those, some played instruments you couldn't simply carry around with you to a club. It soon became apparent, that they'd ideally need a guitar player. To Sherlock's surprise that left only five people with their hands in the air. John was one of them. Anderson was another.

"How are you performing live in front of an audience? It has to be believable."

Even though Sherlock felt like he was stating the obvious, it had to be said. The whole operation needed someone confident enough to pull it off. It had to look like they really wanted a chance to sing professionally.

John looked around. Most people had sat back down or dropped their hands, and Anderson didn't look too thrilled at the prospect of playing in front of an audience.

"Oh for goodness' sake. Just get me a guitar so I can practice. I'll do it!" John said impatiently. All eyes turned on the army doctor.

"Are you sure, John?" Lestrade's eyes were wide in surprise, Sherlock just smirked smugly, having expected an outcome like this. John would owe him a fiver.

"Yes, I'm sure, Greg."

"Have you done this before? The club is likely to be crowded."

"Lestrade, there are only so many ways you can keep yourself occupied in the Afghan desert when gambling's illegal and alcohol is banned. And there are only so many times you can polish your shoes and clean your gun. So on quiet nights, when you're not on duty, you play, you sing. Once a quarter we organised a sort of talent show to boost morale a bit. Bastion can accommodate around 28,000 personnel. I've literally played in front of thousands. I might not be very good and I'm self-taught, but I don't suffer stage fright. Can anyone here beat that?"

He glanced around the room and saw a lot of surprised and intrigued faces, all shaking no.

"Right. That's settled then. Where can I get an electric guitar and earplugs from, so I can practice quietly?"

Sherlock's fingers were already flying over the keys on his phone.

"All sorted. It'll all be dropped off at Baker Street in about an hour." John rolled his eyes. That meant Mycroft was involved.

"Right, the contest starts tomorrow night at 9pm. We'll meet at 8pm a block away from The Brickyard for a briefing. John, people are likely to recognise you. You'll have to disguise yourself."

John looked from Greg to Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded, sending another text.

"Ok, back to work everyone. John, come with me. Sherlock, wait here." Greg instructed and headed for the lift, John following closely on his heels. Lestrade led them down to the evidence locker.

"Greg? What are we doing here?"

"John, it's not that I don't trust you. But this whole undercover operation depends on your performance, depends on you being able to deliver. I need to hear you play before I can allow this to go ahead. There are acoustic guitars in there, and I'm fairly certain one of them is for left-handed players."

John understood. He found the guitar and quickly tuned it. Lestrade then took him to a sound proof room.

"Ok, John, show us what you've got!" Greg grinned as he closed the door. John smiled back, took one deep breath and started to play.

Greg was impressed.

They returned to the squad room fifteen minutes and one rendition of Summer of '69 later. It was the only song that John could play from the top of his head at short notice although he did assure the detective inspector that he had other songs in his repertoire as well.

When they got back to the squad room, they found Sherlock and Donovan shouting insults at each other. John quickly grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and guided him outside to hail a cab.

They barely made it back to Baker Street before one of Mycroft's men showed up bearing gifts.

First he brought an amp and some high-quality headphones up the stairs. This was followed by a small box of disguises. And lastly, a worn guitar case, covered in stickers. John assumed the tattered case would make his bumbling musician act more believable. He half expected the guitar to be used as well. So when he opened the case and found himself face to face with a brand new, deep red Fender Stratocaster with white pickguard, his jaw dropped.

"Mr. Holmes sends his regards, Doctor Watson. He wants you to know that he'd like you to keep the instrument should you so desire." The agent's words barely registered with John, who only nodded, entirely focused on the guitar, almost afraid to touch it.

Once Mycroft's agent had left, John inspected the guitar more closely. He noted immediately that it was made for a left-handed player and strung accordingly. John was immensely grateful for that and the fact that Mycroft had paid attention. He had tried to play with his non-dominant hand when he first learned to play, but it had ended in disaster.

Wanting to practice in relative privacy first, John reverently lifted the Fender out of the case, plugged the headphones in and took a pick out of the case. He plugged each string and found the instrument newly strung and finely tuned. So he closed his eyes and began to play.

Sherlock watched in amazement. He'd never seen John play before and he couldn't hear the tune but it intrigued him. Sherlock observed John's facial expressions as he mouthed the words. He was obviously playing a rock number, judging by the chords John played and how he tapped along. The detective was surprised how well John could play. John even demonstrated that he was able to finger-pick a particularly difficult intro that seemed vaguely familiar.

The longer John played the more songs and chords he seemed to remember. The doctor played a few more songs in silence, fingers running confidently along the fingerboard without him even looking. Sherlock knew from experience with the violin that this took practice, especially when you never had formal instructions, and he was impressed. When they'd spoken about playing instruments before and John had confessed he was a self-taught guitarist, Sherlock had never expected him to be this proficient.

Seemingly satisfied so far, John opened his eyes again. Sherlock had just enough time to pretend to look busy so it wouldn't be obvious that he'd been staring.

"Sherlock? Could you get Mrs. Hudson? I need your input as to what song I should perform as I can't decide. I've got three really to choose from, and I'd like to know your opinion. The two of you will need to choose for me, I can't make up my mind."

John had barely finished speaking when Sherlock sprang up and bounded down the stairs like an excited five-year-old on Christmas morning.

John grinned to himself as he set up the amplifier and tested the volume. Only now did he realize that Mycroft had given him a small valve Marshall amp. John let out an impressed whistle. Mates of his had dreamt about starting a band and had told him all about the gear they would get. A Marshall amp like this had always been pretty high on the list. "You can't get anything better for that vintage rock sound" they had said. If only they could see him now.

Because he didn't want Mrs. Turner next door to have a heart-attack once he started playing in earnest, he kept the volume quite low.

"Hoo-hoo, John!" Mrs. Hudson greeted him as she entered 221b closely followed by a Sherlock who could barely conceal his excitement. John was standing in front of the fireplace, with the amp next to Sherlock's armchair and a guitar stand next to his own.

"Sherlock says you've got a treat for us, dear?"

"Hello Mrs. Hudson. Yes, sort of. Before I start, would you like a cuppa?"

"Oh yes, please, dear. Whatever it is, it's got Sherlock all excited" she smiled. Then the smile turned into a frown as her eyes followed John into the kitchen.

"He hasn't brought back another cadaver, has he?"

"No, no, nothing like that", John laughed.

"I just need your and Sherlock's opinion to make a decision, that's all."

John handed her a cup of tea and asked her to sit down on the sofa. Sherlock was just standing in the door, rocking excitedly on his feet and grinning at John like the Cheshire cat.

John brought two more cups of tea over, shoved one in Sherlock's hand and shot him a glance that meant to say 'stop grinning'.

"Well, are you boys telling me what's going on?"

"Mrs. Hudson, we are currently on a case, and as part of this, John will be going undercover tomorrow night as a musician; auditioning for a chance to record with an independent label." Sherlock's grin got even wider, something John hadn't thought possible.

"Yes. Thank you, Sherlock. Anyway, I'll have to perform. But it's been a while since I played and I can't decide between three songs as I like them all. So I'll need the two of you to help me make a decision. While Sherlock knows classical music, I'm not quite sure whether he's ever heard anything from the last four decades. But I know you, Mrs. Hudson, listen to the radio all day, so you might know these songs."

"Oh, if you say so, dear. It's not going to be any of that screechy – screaming music, is it?"

John stared at her for a few seconds, before his brain caught up and he did a double take.

"I can assure you, it's not going to be metal music, no. Right the, the songs to choose from are 'I want ot all' by Queen, 'Summer of 69' by Bryan Adams and 'Layla' by Eric Clapton. You'll probably recognise them when you hear them.

"They do sound familiar, yes."

"Ok. Good." John took one last gulp of his tea and picked up the guitar.

"And Sherlock, no criticism from the cheap seats until I'm done" he said and pointed at the consulting detective, who looked offended for a second before the smirk took over again.

"Here goes…" John said and started to play.

Sherlock was well and truly impressed and that was saying a lot. John had a pretty good technique despite being self-taught. And he knew how to carry a tune. Sherlock had heard John sing under the shower sometimes when the blogger had thought he was alone in 221b, but Sherlock had had no idea his friend was actually such a good singer.

Granted, the songs John had chosen were different from Sherlock's usual taste, but John had packed as much passion into them as Sherlock did into his violin playing. He watched fascinated how John closed his eyes every now and then while he was playing and how even Mrs. Hudson was tapping along in time. She even knew some of the lyrics!

At the end of the three songs, both Sherlock and their landlady gave standing ovations, while John blushed and bowed. He mumbled his thanks and put the guitar on the stand Mycroft had provided.

"Well, what did you think? Which one?" John looked at Mrs. Hudson first, then Sherlock and adopted and at ease stance, patiently waiting for the verdict of his small audience.

"Oh sweetheart, they were all lovely. Why did you hide your talent?" She asked, still clapping.

"I didn't really hide it, Mrs. Hudson, I just couldn't afford an instrument. I haven't played since I left the army." John confessed.

"You should take it up again. You could do with a hobby, love."

"I do have a hobby" John laughed. "It's called 'Sherlock'. I do work as a GP in case everyone's forgotten. The cases are what I do in my free-time, even though it doesn't always look like it. But I might play more. It'd definitely be a less dangerous hobby than my current one." John smirked at the consulting detective, who scowled at him and pouted, but John knew it was pretence.

"Well? I still don't know which one I should play."

"Go with the third one you played. You know that one best and seem most comfortable. It's also in a vocal range you're comfortable with. I agree, by the way. You should play more often." Sherlock said.

"Ok, that's one vote. Mrs. Hudson? Your opinion?"

"Either the second or the third song, I would say. The second one was lovely, but if it's a competition, the third showed your guitar-playing skills more. Even though they were not exactly to my taste, mind you."

"OK, the third one it is, then. I was leaning towards that one anyway. Thank you for your help." Clearly relieved, John ran his fingers through his hair.

"Oh John," Mrs. Hudson laughed. "How could I refuse a dashing young man like yourself willing to serenade me?" She gave him a hug before she turned towards the stairs to make her way back down to her own flat.

Sherlock watched John as the doctor went towards the guitar again.

"Do you require more practice?"

"I wouldn't mind playing it through once or twice, just to be on the safe side. But I should be good for now. Why?" He was immediately slightly worried. Sherlock with a plan usually didn't bode well for him.

"We need to sort out a disguise. You'd get recognised immediately due to your recent media attention if you showed up looking like you usually do. Nobody would believe the undercover bit."

John winced. He hadn't thought about getting recognised. Usually it was Sherlock who got recognised immediately with John standing on the sidelines and getting ignored.

"If they recognise you, they might realize we're onto them. Mycroft sent some disguises over, plus we'll have my own supplies to draw from. Why should start with your hair." Sherlock went on without realizing that John was slightly uncomfortable with the suggestion.

A look of horror flashed across John's face when his hair was mentioned.

"What's wrong with my hair?" John ran his right hand through it as if to check it was still there.

"Nothing is wrong with it. But we should dye it." Sherlock dug around in the box Mycroft had provided and after examining the bottles closely held up several packs of hair dye to John.

"These will all wash out after a shower or two. Don't worry, you'll look yourself again at the palace. Besides, I'll change my hair too."

Sherlock did have a point. Between them they had attracted enough reporters in all the time they'd known each other. John's Afghanistan story had increased their news coverage drastically. So far, there had been at least one story per day about the incident or related issues since the first story broke on Saturday, and most papers were quoting John's statement, immediately drawing attention to Sherlock as well.

John peered into the bag to check out the dye. There were all sorts of shades, ranging from dirty blonde to hazelnut and auburn. He swiftly grabbed the hazelnut-coloured one as he found it the least cringe-worthy.

"Will that be enough? Why not the auburn one? Go as far as possible from what you look like now." Sherlock questioned John's choice.

"Brunette will do, thank you." Under his breath, John muttered "my gran would have had a field day if she lived to see me being a ginger. Probably would have disinherited me." Sherlock just laughed. John shot him a look.

"You didn't know my Granma Watson. She's been dead a long time but if you knew the woman, you'd try not to get on her bad side. Trust me, dying my hair ginger just for a day would have been enough. And I'd rather not risk her wrath, just in case." John had to concede it sounded silly, but his grandmother had harboured certain views towards people with certain hair colours and auburn was very high up on the list.

"I'm sure she was a lovely woman", Sherlock conceded. "I just didn't peg you for being this superstitious."

"I wasn't. I just spent a long time believing that if anyone could come back from the dead, it'd be Granma Watson just because someone peeved her off enough. But then…" he looked up to Sherlock, all serious now.

"Then you went and proved me wrong. You were dead and I kept asking for you to come back, to be alive and all of a sudden there you were, breathing and kicking. I'm still not superstitious, but if you can come back, then my gran definitely could, too. You I can deal with. She's another matter."

Sherlock sobered immediately. He had only been gone for half a year and had returned to Baker Street more than two years ago. They both had spent a long time adjusting to each other again but had eventually been able to put it all behind them.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to bring that up. I do see your point though. I'd hate to come across my maternal grandmother again." Sherlock apologized.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm just going to go and dye my hair now." With that, John disappeared in the bathroom.

Sherlock felt like he could slap himself. Why did he have to bring that episode in their lives up again? It was true, he didn't buy into superstition, but he'd heard what John had said, standing at his supposed grave and asking for a miracle. And here he was, that miracle personified and he had to go and ridicule John's belief.

Sherlock kept standing outside the bathroom, talking to John.

"I didn't mean to ridicule you, John. I know that thanks to your belief in the fact that I wasn't dead I was able to come back at all." He was speaking to the door, but knew John had heard him as the water pipes were not yet rattling away and heating up.

John just stood there, in the small bathroom, looking down at the bottle of hair dye. It'd been a while since they had talked about that particular incident. But he could also tell that Sherlock's apology was sincere and not put on. Eventually, he could hear Sherlock move away from the door, and John sat down on the toilet lid to study the dye instructions.

Sherlock made his way to his own room, to dig through his box of disguises and to sort a suitable outfit for both of them.

After a minute or two, John's head appeared in the doorway.

"Erm… look. I didn't mean to say anything. And I'm glad you're back and all's well. But… er… how exactly does this work?" He waved the bottle of dye around.

Sherlock kept his head turned away for a second, relieved that they'd avoided an argument. Then he had to smirk.

"Considering that you managed to obtain a doctorate, I assumed that you'd be able to read simple instructions, John…"

"I can read the bloody instructions, Sherlock, but I've never dyed my hair before, so a little help would be nice."

"Fine" Sherlock whined and followed John into the bathroom to apply the mixture. Once that was done, Sherlock returned to the disguises while John was letting the formula work.

Forty minutes later, a freshly showered and dark-haired John Watsin joined his flat mate in the living room.

"Right, hair's done. What's next?"

"A disguise, of course. I've put something upstairs that I think might work, especially given the song you have chosen to perform. It's on your bed, have a look and tell me what you think. There's plenty more disguises here that we could utilize should the one I picked not suit our needs."

John retreated to his bedroom, afraid of what he might find. Having Sherlock Holmes pick out a disguise for going undercover as a rock musician could potentially go wrong. Did Sherlock even know what musicians wore to something other than concert halls?

He stopped dead in his tracks when he opened the door and took in the ensemble Sherlock had assembled for him. He let out a small appreciative whistle, thinking that this might actually just work. John picked up the clothes and got dressed.

12


End file.
